


The Saint of Brown Bread

by BlairRabbit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate History, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Focus on World Building, Gen, Historical References, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Interactions with History, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Story within a Story bits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-17 16:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20623757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlairRabbit/pseuds/BlairRabbit
Summary: Hell enlists the help of a lonely cryptid and an ex-nun to take Crowley out once and for all. Aziraphale and Crowley are forced to deal with this strange set of assassins, a bizarre secret weapon and their own feelings for one another. In other words: a keg of unconventional, divine dynamite.





	1. Dear Martha and the Devil

_ The Pine Barrens of Southern New Jersey, United States of America: Present Day_

It is known and accepted by residents of both Heaven and Hell that God, in her infinite, unknowable glory, created everything. Demons and Angels, unlike most creatures that inhabit the known universe, are very sure about certain facts and this is one of them.

What the denizens of Upstairs and Downstairs don’t really consider however is that even if a rule is absolute, it might have a bit of postscript that needs to be read up on. Even the most inscrutable truth can be followed by an asterix that directs to a crucial footnote.

Let’s say you were to run across an Angel while waiting for a bus. Let’s say you were compelled to ask the Angel if God created novelty salt and pepper shakers. If you did, they would most certainly answer: Yes, of course. God created everything so that would include novelty salt and pepper shakers.

If you asked a Demon the same question, they would probably answer something similar: if they didn’t ignore you or kill you on the spot. The real question isn’t what they would say but if they are _right_.

God didn’t create a salt-shaker humorously shaped like a basset hound in the first seven days of creation. She did create the elements that would form the salt-shaker. She created the little atoms that make up ceramic and paint, but it was a human who made the shaker itself.

So, here is the conundrum. Did God actually create the basset shaker by making the human who created it? Is God tacitly responsible for all good and bad in the world? Or, can she only take real credit for being the starting point?

Humans, beings built in God’s image, most certainly retained Her ability to create. Hula Hoops, microwave ovens, cookie cutters and jumbo jets are all human creations. They work in large part because humans_ believe_ they will.

In many ways it’s human’s faith in natural law that causes the plane to fly or the microwave to re-heat day-old pizza. The imagination, curiosity and intuition instilled in humanity way back in Eden has given them powers of creation they aren’t even aware of.

And, this brings us to where the story begins. With two Demons deep in the woods on a dark, moonless evening. Or-perhaps, for a bit more context we should start in 1735, in a tiny cabin in New Jersey, United States of America, and the story of a creature who wasn’t born so much as created.

Jane, or Deborah, or just Mother Leeds, according to the version, had 12 children. Her husband Japhet, or Daniel Leeds, again according to the version, was a poor woodcutter who could barely keep food on the table. In February 1735 Mrs. Leeds again found herself in a delicate condition and was absolutely furious about it.

The instant the overworked woman found out she was pregnant again she waved her hands to the sky and declared “A 13th child belongs to the Devil!” Or in some versions she cried “The Devil take from me the unlucky 13th!” The exact words weren’t the problem but the intent and belief behind them undoubtedly was.

Exactly nine months later, on what is universally agreed was a stormy October night, Jane or Deborah gave birth to a hideous monster that everyone creatively called “The Leeds Devil” and, a few decades later, “The Jersey Devil”

Some say that the Devil was born a normal baby and only later became a horrific beast. Others insist he was born, screeched horribly, then climbed up the family chimney and disappeared to forever haunt the Jersey Pine Barrens.

Some even claim that Mrs. Leeds herself was a witch and her child was born of a very productive union with Satan himself. Anyone who has read the previous adventures of the Angel and Demon who star in this story knows that the Lord of Hell only had one child and he lived in Tadfield England, a far cry from the primitive New Jersey wilderness.

The Devil couldn’t really remember his childhood. He couldn’t recall having parents or siblings, let alone twelve of them. Most of his memories were about trees, wandering around in trees, eating the occasional squirrel and scaring the occasional traveler. His hobbies included watching people from a distance, feeling lonely and contemplating ways he could possibly make a friend.

Like the hilariously shaped shakers previously mentioned, the origins of The Devil are a conundrum. God didn’t directly create him, there weren’t two Devil’s on the ark or in the garden. Like an adorable puppy pepper shaker, it was technically humans who had created the Jersey Devil.

What he was could have many names; a manifestation of fear, a regional legend, a bit of local folklore, a fireside tale. He existed because humans _knew _he existed and had for over 250 years.

Napoleon Bonaparte’s brother Joseph had supposedly seen him in the 1800’s and he was spotted stealing chickens from a very surprised farmer in 1925. He attacked groups of roving Highwaymen, carriages and finally motorists after the car had taken over. The Philadelphia zoo still offered 10,000 dollars to whoever could bring him in.

The Devil, being a Legend, wasn’t directly associated with forces of the Holy or the Profane. He was ageless, or, at least a different kind of immortal and he had no alliances with heaven, hell or humanity. He simply _was_.

It was because of this that The Jersey Devil currently stood, nervously fidgeting, in front of two impatient and powerful Demons in the woods on a dark, moonless evening.

Hastur, the paler one with the worse smell, took a long drag on a cigarette and looked The Devil up and down with open disdain. He let a long stream of vile, yellowish smoke slip from his nostrils before finally addressing the Legend coolly.

“Thought you’d be taller.”

The Devil straightened up and swallowed thickly.

“I-I used to be a taller, sir. I change looks every once in a while. Kinda depends on how people _think_ I look.”

This was absolutely true. In the beginning when he was strictly the Leed’s Devil he had looked more goat-like. At times over his life The Devil had been part horse, kangaroo and even camel. At the moment he had a stag skull for a head, horns and all, a bent, emaciated humanish torso and spindly horse-like haunches complete with heavy, black hooves.

The other demon, the one with the fly on its head who spoke with a buzzing lisp, gave an exasperated sigh.

“Satan below, he sounds like a human _child_ Hastur. What the Heaven are we doing here?”

The Devil took a frantic step forward, reaching one stunted, handish-appendage out in desperation.

“Please! I can do whatever you want! I know I can!”

Hastur threw the smoldering butt of his cigarette into the damp grass and struggled to repress a giddy smile. Faux disappointment was part of the act. Convince the one you’re tempting that you don’t believe in them and they’ll agree to any terms you set. It was a terrific con he and Beelzebub were quite experienced in.

The Duke of hell scratched idly at a putrid bit of rotting skin on his cheek and shrugged one shoulder.

“Mmm, have you ever actually killed anyone before?”

The Devil hesitated and if he had skin on his face, he would probably have been worrying his lower lip. He settled for tugging at the matted mane that fell in ragged waves from his long, scrawny neck.

“Well, uh- I’m more into, you know, scaring people…”

The Legend clicked his jaw and flared his huge, bat-like wings apprehensively.

“-But! I’ve killed loads of cows and chickens! Couple pigs. A duh-donkey once.”

The swarm of flies circling around Beelzebub’s head gave a bizarre, buzzing approximation of laughter.

“If we wanted to kill livestock, we would do it ourselves boy. W- “

“Please!”

The Beast of the Pine Barrens cut the Prince of Hell off and ducked back, shaking with nerves.

“I-You said, or he said-someone said that If I did a favor for you…you would make me a real _actual _demon. The favor involves killing someone?”

Hastur nodded indifferently.

“It does.”

The Devil shivered, his skull rattling slightly before he found his voice again.

“Ok, but-if I do kill them. T-Then I would be able to look human right? I would be able to blend in and talk to people-talk to other Demons?”

Beelzebub and Hastur traded a sly, knowing look.

There is a well-known proverb in Hell that goes like this.

“_If you want an easy tempting look for the horny. _

_If you want a satisfying tempting look for the lonely_.”

In other words, tempting someone with lust is easy, will probably end with sex and the calories are empty. With lust you’re just going to be hungry for another tempting an hour or so after finishing. Tempting someone who is lonely is also easy, but it can be accomplished a thousand different ways. It will leave you with a gratifying “_couldn’t eat another bite if I tried" _feeling_._

Beelzebub looked down their nose at the Jersey Devil and narrowed beady eyes. Their voice oozed unpleasant sincerity.

“Of _course_. A contract with us is binding. The envoy Hastur sent said as much, did it not?”

Squirming, the Jersey Devil gave a clattery nod; the envoy had _definitely_ come. They had appeared before The Devil in the form of a million maggots. They had spoken to him in a single unified voice from the corpse of a rotting rabbit.

It was actually quite a momentous event: Hell had never officially contacted any Legend before. The Jersey Devil didn’t know this, he was just excited to actually speak face to snout with someone who wasn’t a woodland creature.

“The maggot-er-envoy didn’t mention the killing bit.”

Hastur hissed a low reply.

“It’s not just anyone, we need you to kill a Demon.”

“Oh.”

Lashing his long, forked tail The Devil blinked at his hooves.

“Isn’t that, you know, hard?”

Beelzebub scowled, openly displeased by the Legend’s lack of enthusiasm.

“This particular Demon has proven quite hardy, yes. But we are confident we’ve found a way to destroy him; utterly and completely.”

It was at this point the Jersey Devil realized that perhaps he was in a bit over his head. His life up until this point had been rather simple: isolated and incredibly lonely, yes, but simple. He stamped a hoof and glanced into the darkened glade behind him just in case he needed to make a quick exit.

“So, if I do this could I-could you do the Demon change thing first?”

Hastur and Beelzebub exploded at the same time, their answer echoing off the pristine pine trees surrounding the grassy meeting spot.

“_NO!_”

Hastur adjusted the lapels of his filthy coat and said in a much calmer growl-

“No. No one Above or Below is permitted to finish this fucker off. Officially the Angel-smelling shit stain is off limits to both sides. That’s why we need _you_.”

Beelzebub picked up where the Duke left off, a very professional sneer curling their upper lip.

“You belong to neither, you are something else entirely, an abnormality. He won’t smell or feel you coming and that’s the advantage we need.”

This explanation only managed to make The Devil feel worse about himself and less sure about the situation as a whole; the opposite of what Hastur was going for. Demon’s aren’t very good at things like reassurance or encouragement; that’s more of an Angel’s forte.

“Wait, _finish_ him? So, you tried to kill him once? If-If you can’t do it what makes you think I could?”

Hastur was beginning to lose his very limited patience. He pushed his fingers through the greasy doormat he called hair and tried for a winning smile to put his potential tempt at ease.

“We have an ace in the hole this time. A guaranteed slow and painful death that not even the original snake in the grass can survive. Something even more potent than Holy Water.”

Beelzebub took a few sharp steps closer and The Devil could feel stray flies start to land on his skull, buzzing around in his empty eye sockets. The Prince put a clammy, corpse-like hand reassuringly on the Legend’s back.

“You won’t be doing this by yourself young man. You’ll have a partner, a weapon and a plan all set and ready to execute. “

Hastur rushed to agree.

“All you have to do is follow-through. It will be-what is it the humans say? Easy-paisley.”

The Jersey Devil perked one equine ear in interest.

“I’ll have a…a partner?”

Beelzebub nodded again voice going sickly sweet as they finished reeling in their prey.

“Truly, and a very _competent_ one. We’ve even scoured about and found an old Glamour so you can walk freely among humans while you’re working. It’s just a surface illusion but it’ll do the job.”

“R-Really?”

“Just consider this, mmm…Your first demonic assignment. A simple assassination and then you’ll never be alone again. What do you say?”

The Devil glanced backwards into the woods. The only world he had known his whole, relatively long, life. The thought of trekking back to the damp, empty cave he had called home for the last twenty years or so sounded torturous.

Most of what the Jersey Devil knew about Hell, Demon’s and the world outside his little niche had come from peeking into cabin windows to watch bits of television programs. He could also read a little bit. It had taken a long time, and he still wasn’t very good at it, but he managed to teach himself the basics. If he was lucky a camper would abandon a book or old magazine.

Given his resources The Devil knew more about beauty tips than he did about Hell. He gathered that it was bad and hot and If that’s all there was to it? The Pine Barrens were worse by far. Kill someone? How different from killing a squirrel or a rabbit could it be? He could do that. It would be hard but…

The Legend raised his skull up and settled luminous green eyes on the two Demon’s. With a sigh he finally, reluctantly nodded.

“Ok. I-I’ll do it.”

Hastur smirked and moved aside with a small bow to give Beelzebub space. The Prince raised a hand expectantly, grasped the Jersey Devil’s stubby claws and gave them a firm shake.

Written contracts signed in blood were traditional, but Beelzebub honestly weren’t sure how it would work with something like The Devil. One of the reasons they had accompanied Hastur on this trip was because of the newness of the whole enterprise.

It would all be worth it if Crowley was laid low. So, _deliciously_ worth it.

Moving rapidly Beelzebub pulled The Devil’s hand roughly upwards and in the same fluid movement jammed a thick, ill-fitting ring on the cryptid’s stocky finger. The Demon held it tightly, speaking in a bored voice even as The Jersey Devil gave a guttural roar of pain.

“This is a Glamorie, we mostly use them to help humans disguise themselves so they can screw someone specific. Haven’t had to pull one out in a while”

A sensation that felt like a thousand wriggling worms erupted under the Legend’s skin. It dug into his muscles and scalded his bones. Soft, nut-brown skin spread outwards from under the cobalt black ring, hiding the Jersey Devil’s iridescent scales and shaggy, black fur.

His skeleton shifted, spine cracking upward from his normally hunched position. Claws withdrew, hooves flattened, and the Legend’s bare, bony face compacted like it had been stepped on. His mane flopped over his new stub of a nose and ran down smooth shoulders.

The Devil’s wings and tail were pulled “_somewhere else”_; somewhere just out of view. He could just feel them through some thin veil. It was like his true shape was behind a curtain and if he just peeled it back the odd, mushy body he now suddenly found himself in would evaporate.

He looked…_human_.

After Beelzebub finally released The Devil’s hand Hastur threw something at him which the Legend barely caught; it turned out to be a crumpled pile of human clothing.

“Put that on.”

The Devil stared at the wrinkled sweatshirt and jeans; they smelled a bit like dried blood. He snorted, flaring new fleshy nostrils, almost afraid to move.

“I-I- look-hu-human??”

Hastur rolled his eyes.

“Real genius, you. Yes. That’s what a Glamorie does idiot. You’ve got to look human, you have a plane to catch.”

“P-plane?”

Beelzebub snapped their fingers and a dark black item appeared between their thumb and forefinger. It was a wallet The Devil realized, he had seen campers lose them quite often; it was one of the few things they bothered to come back and look for.

“A plane’s a large metal tube human’s use to defy God for use in transportation.”

The Prince of Hell said dryly.

“You will be taking one to meet your new co-worker and pick up the weapon you will use to kill the Demon Crowley. You’ll be using the name Jersey Leeds.”

Moving their hand in a subtle wave the wallet in Beelzebub’s hand was joined by a glowing smart phone.

“We’ve provided you with a human identification card and some human currency.”

The newly named Jersey Leeds, formally the Jersey Devil, stood there still holding his new clothes, mouth agape. He was no stranger to flight but a _plane_…

“I-where am I going?”

Hastur’s crooked, gnarled teeth shone in the dark.

“London my boy, you’re going to London.”

_Cincinnati__ Zoo, United States of America: November 1st, 1914_

A bitter November wind swept easily through the dry, wire mesh surrounding Martha’s aviary. She shivered deeper into her feathers, currently going through a most unpleasant molt, and turned her back to the door of her roosting house.

She was alone with her thoughts this evening and considered this neither a wholly good nor bad situation.

As much as she appreciated the kindness of the various rock-doves she shared an exhibit with, Martha often found herself unfulfilled by their company. They were birds, yes, and even existed within the same genealogical order as her but…they weren’t really her flock.

They were also quite young. Youth, Martha found, was best shared with others of the same persuasion. These new birds were too busy, too frantic about everything. Just yesterday a Eurasian Collared-Dove named Chamomile was going on and on about how exciting the first winter snow was.

Martha had seen enough snow; she had lost excitement for cold weather ages past. She did appreciate the pretty squab’s boundless enthusiasm, but only in small doses.

Martha’s father, whose coo she had long forgotten, said that there were once so many pigeons like them in the sky, they had looked like snow. He claimed that his grandfather had traveled in flocks that blotted out the sun and kept the land in the dark for days at a time.

The old stories were nice to think about, but Martha had lost the desire to retell them. She was almost thirty years old and fairytales were getting harder to stomach. Her father had died young, he was only ten, and she couldn't remember her mother. She was told her mother was studied at a prestigious college, taken when she was only a hatchling.

The Keepers said, with much remorse, that Martha was the very last of her kind. She believed them, could almost feel the heavy truth herself. It was always there in the pitying looks of the people visiting her enclosure.

The only other bird to look like Martha, a nasty male named Deter, had died four years past. Martha had to admit that she didn’t miss him as much as she thought she would. They were both of the same kind, but his personality was boorish.

Plus, he was extremely rude to the young flock of frightened Socorro’s introduced into their aviary a year before his passing.

Martha had seen hundreds, perhaps, thousands of birds, pass through the Cincinnati Zoo grounds over her twenty-nine or so years. Their names blurred together, their faces and songs one long string of nonsense. Only a half dozen of them had been like her and she thought about them the most.

The old bird’s eyesight was going. Four years before, during a brutal January cold snap, she had taken ill with a serious case of the shakes. The kindly doctor who performed her health exams declared she was suffering from a fit of apoplexy. This was accompanied by a terrible Grippe that seemed to last until spring.

Martha hadn’t felt quite like herself since. She rallied and her good Keepers built her a lower roost. It helped; she didn’t risk a fall from the top of the birdhouse anymore. Her Keepers were always so very considerate to an old bird, she deeply appreciated it.

Shifting her weight Martha groaned low. Her body ached down to the flight feathers; her joints swollen. No matter what she did she just couldn’t warm up and her appetite was nonexistent. The old bird’s usual long afternoon nap left her feeling a kind of malaise; she couldn’t recall her dreams.

She recognized something familiar beyond the pain of old age. Loath as she was to admit it Martha felt lonely. She was lonely as only the last of a species could be lonely.

She felt-_singularly lonely_ and wondered, deep down, if any other creature had ever felt anything similar. Being an aged, practical bird not given to dramatics Martha imagined there had to be others out there who felt alone in who they were, in _what _they were.

Another gust of chill wind smashed against the firm wood and brick of Martha’s aviary house; she ignored it.

Her mind moved in sluggish circles as she ruminated on her past. She had been reminiscing more and more these days, something she had once considered frivolous and sentimental; in other words, a terrible waste of time.

Remembering didn’t bring back the dead or reverse time, but really, with how difficult flying was these days it was one of Martha’s few entertainments.

She had drifted so deep into daydreams of life in her prime that she barely noticed when another bird landed gently next to her on her padded roost. The bird drew close and Martha startled, jerking her head back and forth as she tried to recognize the stranger; she couldn’t place them.

Martha’s hazy vision usually only left her with cloudy impressions of her surroundings. Despite this, she was sure the visitor was a young Columbidae. But…that couldn’t be, all the younger birds were huddled together high in the roost house rafters. She was also very confident that none of the aviary birds were the stranger’s shade of sterling, _shining_ white.

“Good Evening, my dear”

The stranger cooed pleasantly as he bobbed his head in a very old-fashioned manner. Martha was taken aback at first. The bird was male or-perhaps he just sounded male. She couldn’t really determine his species, couldn’t even decide if he was some sort of dove.

All she could establish with her deteriorating vision was that he was indeed bird-shaped and seemed to glow like the moon on fresh snow.

Not one to forget her manners, Martha returned the odd birds bob, wincing at the pain in her neck. She replied in her most courteous voice.

“A good evening to you, kind stranger. I apologize but, I’m afraid I don’t recognize you. Have you lived in this aviary long?”

The bird, who was extraordinarily fluffy already from what Martha could tell, puffed his plush feathers further. His body seemed to engulf the roost with a beautiful, summer heat.

“Oh no! I’m not a resident, just here to visit you, Martha dear.”

Martha pushed closer to the stranger despite herself. His entire body radiated a kind warmth, it soaked into hollow bones and reminded a bird of June. Martha could almost smell the season; animal sweat, scorched earth and roasted peanuts from the zoo’s refreshment stands. The November night was forgotten in the haze of isolated summertime.

“That’s truly gallant of you sir, Might I ask your name?”

The stranger didn’t hesitate, and his dazzling aura only grew brighter.

“Of course, dear heart, how rude of me. My name is Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate.”

“Gate of the… zoo?”

“Oh no, Eden. The original garden.”

For a moment Martha was afraid to admit she had no idea what the odd newcomer was talking about. She knew some captive birds could suffer from “Zoo fever,” a sort of brain-malady that drove caged animals insane. It was possible this poor fellow suffered the same condition, though, he didn’t seem especially unhinged.

On the other wing, Eden might have been another exhibit, perhaps closer to the water buffalo. Martha herself had never visited exhibits outside her own but she still considered herself quite knowledgeable.

A great many ornithologists, zoologists and biologists had come to see her over her long life, and, like most long-lived creatures, she was a very good listener.

Martha turned her clearest eye Aziraphale’s direction, struggling to get a better look at his round, friendly face.

“Is an Angel a bird in the Order of Columbiformes? I know most of the residents here fit somewhere in that classification.”

The Angel bird chuckled amiably but there was no cruelty in his laughter. He seemed tickled, either at the situation or perhaps just at being alive in general; Martha couldn’t decide.

“I think it would be quite hard to assign a classification like that to my type.”

“Ah, so you do have a flock! Are there many of you?”

Aziraphale dithered, rocking back and forth where he was perched. Finally, he answered, artfully avoiding the question.

“Your feathers are in an awful disarray, Martha dear; may I groom them for you?”

To say her feathers were in disarray was a terrible understatement; Martha ruffled in embarrassment.

The recent cold had made the shafts of the old birds feathers quite brittle, further complicating a bad molt. Other birds in Martha’s aviary were kind but never very enthusiastic about grooming her. Behind her back she heard unkind whispers about her natural oil having an obnoxious odor.

Martha hadn’t noticed this herself but, she sometimes wondered if this was just how she was supposed to smell. Maybe the scent was simply alien to others who weren’t of her flock. 

She feigned unconvincing disinterest at the Angel’s offer.

“Oh, I don’t see why not. Mind the tailfeathers if you would. I’m losing more than usual.”

With extraordinary gentleness Aziraphale began to preen the disorderly feathers of Martha’s left wing. He smoothed each ragged edge with such softness she couldn’t help but coo, her eyes half-closing in bliss at the good treatment.

It was strange but- at times it almost felt that a she was being touched by a man’s hands instead of another bird’s beak.

“You never answered my question young bird. Do you have a flock? Others like yourself?”

The touches stilled a moment, then continued, disturbing dust built up deep where Martha had trouble reaching. She wasn’t as flexible as she used to be.

“I do have others like me, but I don’t know if they really consider me part of their flock. I’m more of a solo-um, _bird_ these days.”

Martha tutted empathetically, rubbing her cheek along Aziraphale’s satiny feathers. He exuded such a nice, cozy glow. He gave her a secure feeling; like she was safe from even the most dangerous predator.

“A shame. You seem like such a nice squab. I should think any flock would be proud to have you.”

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally, focusing his attention on a chunk of gnarled plumage near Martha’s tail. It was strange. Despite the tender radiance he gave off the bird himself seemed to be a bit of a fidget; naturally nervous.

After a minute or so the ache in Martha’s joints faded, if she had known the word the old bird would have called the relief miraculous. Unfortunately, she had lived her life around men who didn’t put much stock in miracles.

Another moment passed and finally Aziraphale broke the easy silence.

“Martha dear, you are aware that you are in fact the very last Passenger Pigeon? The last in the entire world?”

The Angel birds’ tone was so contrary to what he was asking; his voice soothing and sure. Martha quirked her head from one side to the other then stretched her neck out so Aziraphale had easier access to the feathers there.

“Oh yes, I hear the Keeper’s speak of that often. Poor loves, it upsets them so.”

The Angel bird scooted closer, stammering.

“It-it doesn’t bother you, aren’t you upset with humanity? They did, you know, _extinguish _your flock.”

Martha paused; in truth she had thought about this before; often during long nights when it was difficult to sleep. She wondered what it would be like to be outside the aviary, to have chicks of her own.

She nibbled at the Angel bird’s beak gently, reaching down to take her turn grooming out his already immaculate feathers.

“I love my Keepers. I love the humans who come to visit. My- “

It was strange, Martha prided herself on being a bird of decorum. She rarely admitted her feelings, even to those she was close to. Yet, something about this stranger loosened her tongue and made her want to tell the truth, all of it.

“-My Keepers are as human as the ones who, as you generously put it, extinguished my kind. I find I can’t be mad when I know that humans can be good. There are good birds and bad birds after all.”

“You’ve never found yourself-er, _tempted_ towards anger?”

It took a moment for Martha to recall the definition of tempted used in the context Aziraphale meant.

She had heard visitors claim they were tempted into buying lemonade from the zoo’s refreshment stands but- this was a different sort of temptation. Pigeons, of all types, mate for life, so temptation of the flesh was nearly nonexistent. Gluttony and wraith were not prevalent in bird-kind.

Still, Martha decided she understood the gist of what the Angel bird had asked.

“Would it feel good to peck at them? Fight when they do medical checks? No. No, I don’t think that would accomplish much do you? Better to love them, I think. They’re not the same humans and nursing a grudge is tiring.”

The warmth from Aziraphale intensified dramatically and he sighed as if deeply satisfied.

“You are a marvel Martha, truly. Would you come with me to the roost-house door? I’d like to show you something.”

Aziraphale flapped his deceptively large wings once and in an instant, he was perched close to the opening that lead to the covered yard outside of the aviary. None of the other birds seemed to notice him which surprised Martha; his plumage was just so _vivid_.

At first the old bird wanted to argue that she didn’t feel up for even the small flight; but she soon realized that wasn’t true. All her pain had ebbed away completely. She felt as if she could fly around the wire mesh endlessly, stretching her ill-used primaries. Pushing into an easy take-off Martha joined the Angel bird at the door and looked out into the chill night to find a hushed snow falling.

Martha didn’t notice the wintry cold, she couldn’t feel it under the downy wing the Angel bird had thrust over her, shielding her from the wet. He spoke in his lovely, prim voice pointing out at the thick flakes of new snow.

“The first time I visited this part of the world there were no people but there were certainly many, _many_ Passenger Pigeons.”

Before Martha could ask how the young bird could possibly be around before people she was shocked into stillness. The aviary enclosure had begun to morph, shifting and turning from dull greys to dazzling greens. A meadow teeming with long grass and flowering bushes stretched to where the parrot exhibit once sat. The air bloomed floral and full of life.

Aziraphale’s voice was the only thing grounding Martha. He whispered conspiratorially to her, describing the scene unfolding before her, or perhaps, causing it.

“I witnessed their migration on several occasions. Always in the most wonderful parts of July and early August. They were, at the time, the most numerous birds on earth. I think God must have been very partial to them. They flew together, joyously- “

The heavy snow had begun to change as well, each individual flake had become a bird and each bird was flying in the same direction. Millions and Millions of slim, beautiful bodies arching in flight, moving in tandem.

Martha watched breathlessly as a billion bodies soared endlessly over the woodlands.

They were like her. They sported the cheerful pink bursts on their necks and chests, the dark black dapples and shining ruby eyes. It was _exactly_ like Martha’s father had said It would be.

Turning to look at Aziraphale, Martha was unsurprised to find her shadowy vision perfect again.

The Angel bird’s form wavered, smoke-like. At times he looked kind of like a pigeon…but his eyes weren’t the usual red or amber-orange, they were blue as a clear sky. Immediately, Martha knew that he wasn’t really a pigeon at all, not even a bird. He was something not even the most intelligent ornithologists or biologists could identify.

He gave her a light shove with a wingtip, gesturing out to the inexhaustible flock gliding above them.

“Go on Martha, you’ve more than earned it.”

The old bird, who suddenly didn’t feel old, gave her wings a few experimental flaps, holding them out to feel which way the wind was moving. Martha gave the feathers’ on Aziraphale’s cheek a considerate nibble.

“You’re such a nice young squab, I truly hope you find your flock.”

Then, Martha was in the air. She didn’t look back. If she had looked, she might have seen a pensive man in a cream-colored suit standing alone in a dimly-lit Cincinnati bird enclosure.

At his feet was the body of the world’s last Passenger Pigeon.

_My Sweet Lord Chocolaterie, Lime Street, London, England: Present Day_

The tiniest public sculpture in London is located on the side of a building in Philpot lane. The building where it resides has a plaque that claims it was constructed in 1861 and was an office for spice traders. The statue has nothing to do with this.

You would think that something sitting near the roof of a spice dealers’ workspace would be dedicated to cardamom or cumin or maybe some nice cinnamon but no; nothing even close. 

The little sculpture, which is notoriously hard to spot, is of two mice.

At first glance it would appear the two mice are sharing a piece of blobby cheese. One mouse sits above the cheese facing down, and the other mouse sits below the cheese facing up. The cheese itself is roundish and if it weren’t painted bright yellow it would be tough to tell it was cheese at all.

The most interesting thing about the mouse sculpture is that no one, historian or resident, knew exactly who created it. The mice were a mystery, something that humans both love and despise in equal measure.

The popular narrative goes that two men who were helping with construction on the building fell to their deaths fighting over a missing cheese sandwich. Its uncertain if the statue was put there commemorating the men who died or the cheese sandwich; which must have been unbelievably delicious if two men were willing to die over it.

In some versions of the tale the sandwich was actually eaten by mice. In some versions, there was no sandwich at all, and the workers simply died during the Great Fire of London decades earlier.

The truth of course is that there was no sandwich or mice at all. The minute monument was actually placed in Philpot lane by an artist tortured by visions of a strange and unsure future.

The mice and cheese were first put in place, half hidden under a window eave, somewhere in the 1870s. Initially, the top mouse was painted a creamy white while the bottom mouse was painted a sinister shade of black; the cheese was still cheese colored.

The artist, who suffered from bouts of melancholic prophecy, had hazy dreams of an oncoming apocalypse. He foresaw it would take place many hundreds of years after his own death.

Strangely, the artist chose to warn future generations with a very tiny, very cryptic mouse sculpture. Later on, when the original paint started to chip, the owners of the building would re-paint the mice a bright, cherry red and further muddled the message.

The Demon Crowley knew what the mice meant.

He had always known, but thought the sandwich story was much better, so he never corrected anyone.

Crowley hadn’t thought about the mice in over a hundred years. But, as he trudged through the gloomy London morning on a very important errand, he found himself passing the sculpture. He paused a moment to give it a once over.

It hadn’t changed aside from the bad paint job; it was sort of a relief. The apocalypse had technically come and gone, and those divine mice were still fighting over that hunk of symbolic cheese.

Crisis averted, Antichrist appeased and mice still firmly in place.

_ Hallelujah. _

Crowley hadn’t taken the Bentley this morning in part because he had taken to double checking London for any signs of strain or damage. At night and into the early morning he had taken to prowling every side street and back alley just to make sure there were no cracks in reality, no nuclear warheads that had somehow launched without anyone noticing.

Any being, celestial or not, who has been in a constant state of fight or flight for a good length of time isn’t going to just shed their paranoia the instant peace is declared. Crowley, being a Demon, didn’t trust peace on a good day and this sudden truce actually benefited him personally so it felt even more unbelievable.

Passing the mice with his hands in his pockets Crowley made his way onto Lime Street. He wound his way through early morning commuters and lost looking tourists until he found the building he was looking for. Unfortunately, the building he was looking for was a church.

Or, it _had_ been a church.

The Demon sucked in a sharp breath through his front teeth and glared at the offending structure. It had been a small Episcopal church in its heyday, but the property had recently been purchased by an up and coming chocolatier; one that Aziraphale wouldn’t stop talking about.

The chocolatier had turned the ornate church building into a chocolate shop, one she had humorously named “My Sweet Lord”

Crowley scoffed as he read the shop sign over the old wooden door.

“Ha-ha, well aren’t you just _hilarious_.”

Here was the Demon’s dilemma.

There was only one place in town where he could buy a particular chocolate dessert; the owner only sold it in their own shop. Crowley wanted to surprise Aziraphale with this specific chocolate dessert. That meant he had to enter the shop, but, the shop had once been a church. So, the chocolate dessert Crowley needed just happened to be in a shop built on consecrated ground.

Just because the place had changed hands it didn’t make the soil any less scared apparently.

At first Crowley had considered just giving money to some random human and asking them to buy the sweet for him. The more he thought about this, however, the angrier he became. He wasn’t some idiot teenager begging an adult to buy him cigarettes.

No, He was the one who bloody well tempted those teenagers into smoking the cigs in the first place.

The Demon had passed the shop in his Bentley three or four times in the two weeks since the almost-apocalypse. Memories of another church he had entered during the Blitz made him pause. His feet had been sore for almost a month after that little escapade.

The pain had been more than worth it the first time, but this-this was just _chocolate_. Surely Aziraphale would be happy with something from a shop less associated with celestial good.

Growling deep in the back of his throat the Demon paced across the street from the Chocolaterie anxiously another minute or so. He weighed the pros and cons over and over again in his head until he almost felt dizzy.

Pro: Aziraphale would be happy.

Con: It would hurt, he would look like an idiot bouncing from foot to foot around displays of toffees and it would take a long time to heal.

Pro: Aziraphale would be very happy.

Things hadn't been right since the affair in Tadfield and its aftermath. Being around Aziraphale was getting more and more confusing.

It had started to be more confusing around the time that the Angel knew he wasn’t being watched by his supervisor’s Upstairs. He would push further into the Demon’s personal space then immediately run for it like he was physically scalded; after which he would just act like nothing happened. If Crowley tried to initiate contact Aziraphale would act so fidgety and uncomfortable the Demon would almost instantly pull back; he didn't want to ruin what they already had.

Crowley honestly didn’t know how to handle it.

The Demon was tangled inside, but he had never been unsure about how much he liked the Angel of the Eastern Gate. He didn’t know what they were now. Friends? More than that? How did one determine the nature of a connection like this one? Relationships were a confusing path for mortals, and they didn’t have 6000 years of issues to work through first.

Maybe the special chocolate would be a good peace offering. The first step to figuring all this nonsense out.

“Do it you, _weakling_.”

Crowley hissed at himself.

Hands still in his pockets, Crowley puffed his narrow chest out as far as it could go. the Demon crossed the busy street without looking either way, narrowly missed being hit by a truck and stopped directly in front of the _Sweet Lord’s_ door.

He could _smell_ the holiness on the place. A rank, sickly stink like overripe peaches and a department store perfume counter mixed together. Crowley wrinkled his nose in disgust, adjusted his sunglasses and sneered at a beautiful display of chocolate animals cavorting in the confectionary’s window.

“_FUCK_. Ok-ok here we go.”

Taking one last, long breath the Demon burst into the shop and made a run for the nearest service counter.

Miles and miles above the mice, the sweet shop and Lime street a Legend in an airplane passed by, undetected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the historical facts about real stuff including Martha (The last Passenger Pigeon) The Jersey Devil and The Philpot mice are true (as far as I've read) and very interesting. The title of the fic comes from old cockney rhyming slang for death. "Brown Bread" sounds like "dead" or "He's dead" when you say it in a thick cockney accent. The title can literally be read as "The Saint of the Dead."


	2. Destiny Calls and Leaves a Message

_ A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop, Soho, London, England: Present Day_

Crowley sat with his feet submerged in a plastic tub of icy water.

He watched as it went from crystal clear to a semi-transparent pink; the burst blisters on the bottoms of his feet were bleeding. It would have been nice to just heal them with a demonic miracle, but it wouldn’t work on a holy wound.

Still, he had gotten the specific Chocolate-whatever-cake for Aziraphale. He hoped it was the right cake; he was certain he grabbed the right thing, but he hadn’t had much time to browse about.

The inside of the sweet shop hadn’t been as bad as the Demon thought it would be all things considered. It was consecrated, yes, but since it wasn’t currently in use as a house of worship the holiness had been watered down to a dull roar.

After he procured the pastry Crowley had miracled himself straight to Aziraphale's bookshop. The bottoms of his feet were, pardon the expression, burned to hell and he just didn’t have the energy to deal with a cabbie. He had probably gone far beyond his usual quota for demonic miracles but honestly? Who gave a flying _fuck_.

The Angel had the nerve not to be home when he arrived.

Crowley got into the closed bookshop with a flick of the wrist. In the private back room, behind the main shop, the Demon had summoned himself a footbath and collapsed on the Angel’s old sofa. Immediately, Crowley was overwhelmed by pain. It shot up his calves and pulsed dull through his muscles in time with his heartbeat.

A corporation, a body, that a Demon or Angel inhabited was basically regarded by both the Holy and Profane as little more than a disposable object. Demons liked to compare them to condom’s in hell; You slipped them on to fuck around.

Crowley had known a Lust demon named Rosier who actually enjoyed corporations more than the others but, mostly because it was easier to spread venereal disease wearing one. After inventing syphilis, she had been a bit of a celebrity in hell; until the invention of penicillin.

The lanky Demon laid back against the sofa with a satisfied sigh. He had helped Aziraphale out on that one, just so he could wipe the smile off Rosier’s smug, scaly face.

Still, Lust demon aside, Crowley knew that he and Aziraphale were really the only ones who had grown _fond_ of their corporations. Fond enough to understand how they worked and in turn a bit about how humans worked.

Human bodies followed rigidly structured rules about eating, sleeping and breathing. Because corporations sustained themselves on Angelic Grace and Infernal Power, they didn’t necessarily need to follow these rules to the T.

You could get away with a century long siesta here or a potentially life-threatening injury there without discorporating, but you certainly wouldn’t feel great afterwards. A little gas in the organic tank or a nap of a reasonable eight hours was necessary to keep a corporation tip-top. You needed to care for it just like Crowley did with his Bentley.

The most interesting thing about a corporation, at least to the Demon, was how well it reflected the state of the immortal essence inside it.

It was basically like the proverbial miner’s canary, a warning when something was off; an indication of the state of one’s soul. The body Crowley wore was hurting because the church had hurt him, the true him, that lay between the physical and the metaphysical planes.

Crowley reached over without looking away from his feet, a bottle of Aziraphale’s best wine suddenly at his fingertips. Pulling the cork out with a sharp eyetooth, he spit it out and took a long swig straight from the bottle.

The Demon fidgeted as he heard the front door open, the little bell over the entrance signaling that Aziraphale was back. Crowley stayed silent; eyes half closed as he listened to the Angel putter around the front of the bookshop.

Every single time he left his shop and entered again Aziraphale had to rearrange at least one shelf; It seemed like a comfort ritual. A tangible, solid guarantee that everything was present and accounted for.

It had annoyed Crowley at first, way back when the shop was new. But, over time, his distaste had turned to something else. Everything Aziraphale did, no matter how compulsive or anxious, always had some charming air about it.

The way he cut his food into small pieces so he could take more time to savor them. The way he let his tea steep exactly three minutes and thirty seconds. The polite way he addressed the local animals and birds on their frequent walks. It was enough to leave someone disgustingly sentimental.

All that would have been lost if the world had ended. 

Aziraphale, humming as he went, walked into the back of the shop, a reusable grocery bag in one arm and small bouquet of daisies in the other. He caught sight of Crowley and nearly dropped both.

“Oh! My dear, you gave me a fright, I was just out to- “

The Angel stopped, a cold chill running through him when he spotted Crowley’s feet sunk up to the ankles in chunks of ice and bloodied water.

“Crowley, what happened? Are you badly hurt? Why haven’t you healed yourself?”

Trying to look completely unfazed, Crowley offered a lazy shrug.

“I can’t with this one but-you shouldn’t worry. It’s just a scratch in the paint, it’ll buff out. I’ll be fine, Angel.”

Throwing down his parcel and the flowers on the nearest convenient table, Aziraphale nearly threw himself to his knees. He grabbed one of the Demon’s skinny ankles and tried to pull his foot out of the water with frantic urgency.

“Let me see! Were you attacked? Who did it? Were they from Up or Down?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and all the color had drained from his face. He looked…scared. Crowley had seen him look scared more than a few times: the Spanish Inquisition, the Bay of Pigs incident, the library fire in Alexandria-but his current expression was quite different, and the Demon couldn’t really place _why_.

The Angel finally managed to get one of Crowley’s feet up out of the water, pulling him down and knocking his head on the back of the sofa in the process. Aziraphale made a few small, panicked noises as he took in the burns and puckered, open blisters. The Angel’s normally practical mind had turned into a jittery screen full of static.

Ever since they had skirted complete oblivion by the skin of their teeth, all the Angel could think about was when it was all going to fall down on them. After assessing the bottom of Crowley’s right foot Aziraphale dropped it back into the water with a loud splash and got to his feet, heading back to the front of the bookshop.

Crowley couldn’t help but watch bemused as the Angel sorted madly through a few stacks of books. Eventually he seemed to find the one he was looking for and cracked it open, reading through the yellowed pages feverishly.

“Ah…My I don’t have any vervain…Perhaps some...no.”

“Angel, you’re fretting. Also, vervain? What are you even looking at?”

Aziraphale came back to stand next to the Demon. Sheepishly, he lifted up the book he was reading to show Crowley the cover. It was ancient, though of course lovingly restored, and it took the Demon a moment to decipher the title. It was written in old English, displayed in bright gold lettering on absinthe green binding.

“Book of Shadows of the Herbal Witch?”

Crowley raised a judgmental eyebrow.

“Really?”

His panic momentarily forgotten, Aziraphale huffed and looked at his friend affronted.

“I obviously have all sorts of medical and anatomical texts but sometimes the old remedies work the best.”

“You know, they sell Witch Hazel and Aloe in bottles now. The internet is also helpful if you’d ever let me show you how it works.”

Aziraphale felt heat rise in his pale cheeks. He knew he had archaic tendencies, but this was not the time to bring them up; he shut his book with a loud slap.

“Well, explain why you haven't just miracled them better then! Why-why all _this_. Or should I ask the inter-NET that as well?”

Gesturing emphatically to the tub, Aziraphale held his old book protectively against his chest. Crowley felt a stab of irritation.

“I-you know that sweetshop? The one down on Lime? I just had to nip in and…”

Aziraphale practically exploded.

“The one in the _CHURCH?_ Have you completely lost your senses Crowley?!”

“Listen, I wasn’t even in there that long. I’ll heal up…”

Aziraphale absently set his remedy book down near his forgotten daisies. Pacing in a small, tense circle the Angel began to pull at his hair.

“What business did you even have there?? YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE SWEETS.”

Crowley wasn’t good at comforting people and often times he would either lash out or get angry when a person, particularly someone he liked, was upset. It was easier to get angry than deescalate.

The Demon tried to get to his feet, the pain only made him more exasperated.

“SSSTOP SSSHOUTING. I WASSS GETTING YOU SSSOMETHING!”

The hissing speech impediment that Crowley was so ashamed of was suddenly out in spades.

The Demon picked up the brown paper bag containing Aziraphale's dessert from its place on the sofa next to him. With a low hiss he thrust it angrily into the Angel’s chest with both hands. There was an audible crack as the plastic container inside shattered into multiple pieces.

Crowley blinked in disbelief as a thick, chocolate sludge soaked through the damp paper bag and began to stain the front of Aziraphale's pristine waistcoat.

The Angel and Demon both stared at it a long, dreadful moment.

It felt like time stood still. Empires rose and fell and mountains crumbled to dust in that terrible, awkward silence.

“It…It was a slice of that Red Chili Chocolate Poke Cake…the one you wanted to try.”

Crowley said stupidly as the ooze continued to trickle down the Angel’s front.

“Ah.”

Aziraphale acknowledged.

After another beat of silence Crowley pulled the bag away and sank back to the sofa on shaky legs. He let the bag of what had once been very expensive cake drop to the floor and put his head into his hands, mumbling into them.

“I’ll get another.”

“NO. You will do no such thing!”

Crowley tensed, looked up and glared hard at the Angel through his dark glasses.

“You can’t tell me what to do Angel. I don’t need your permission.”

“I don’t want the blasted cake Crowley! You shouldn’t have gone in the first place! Taking a reckless risk and…your _hurt _now. You-Your acting quite the fool!”

This was, of course, the wrong thing to say and the Angel realized it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Perhaps he had been around humans too long because, like them, he would often say very regrettable things when frazzled; especially to Crowley.

“I’m acting quite the fool!? Taking risksss? That’sss rich coming from the Angel I’ve constantly sssaved over the centuries. The same one that was only recently _discorporated!_”

It was here that the fight became about much more than cake.

All fights are usually like that between people, or beings, that care about each other quite desperately. Small fights over simple things escalate to large fights over complex things, and neither party quite knows how it happened afterwards.

Aziraphale nearly let his wings out and his pink face turned a dark shade of magenta.

“Says the Demon who drove a flaming car! Just taking stupid risks so you can just dis- disappear forever! I just-oh…oh!- you can make me so cross sometimes!”

The cake adventure had backfired _spectacularly_.

Despite the burning agony in his feet Crowley stood, stepped out of the tub and miracled himself a pair of shoes. His ribs felt like they had shrunk, it was like they were crushing his lungs. His eyes were stinging like they were full of smoke, but worst of all, he was furious.

The Demon was outraged that Aziraphale couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. He was angry that the Angel was suddenly treating him as though he couldn’t take care of himself.

The most paradoxical part of this was his failure to see the reasoning behind Aziraphale’s outburst. In his fury Crowley couldn’t recognize the source of the Angel’s fear. 

All that was running through Aziraphale’s mind as he watched Crowley limp ungracefully towards the front door was. _“Oh Lord, what if I never see you again. What if something happens to you and I'm not there to help. Please don’t leave me.”_

What he ended up saying aloud was-

“Oh! Running, now are we? Perhaps you’ll actually make it off to Alpha Centauri this time?”

As he stood in the door-frame Crowley looked back once. He wanted to say _“I’m sorry. I just wanted to do something to show you how important you are to me. I’m sorry you’re upset; I really should have had a plan B.”_

What came out was-

“Perhaps I will!”

Then the Demon slammed the bookshop door behind him and was out in the overcast, London afternoon.

Aziraphale stood still, face a mask of perfect shock. He glanced down at the cake on his shirt. A miracle could have easily cleaned the mess. He might even be able to salvage some of the lost cake but, the Angel couldn’t bring himself to do either. He felt like he needed to wear the stain; his version of a shameful scarlet letter.

“Oh dear…”

The Angel whispered.

_Aboard a Train to St. Paul, Minnesota, United States of America: 1866_

Rudolph Kraus hated trains.

He hadn’t always hated them. Before he had been forced on one, they had been distant, powerful things that journeyed to distant, wonderful places. When a day selling newspapers was particularly slow, Rudolph would imagine boarding a train and traveling to China or faraway Africa; where wild animals lived. 

While he was there, Rudolph would gather up all sorts of oddities for Mr. P.T. Barnum’s Museum over on Ann street. He would talk about his trip, become a famous lecturer. In these daydreams the eight-year-old boy could picture himself posing in front of a giant human skull, or, perhaps an undiscovered species of big cat.

He would make the Feejee Mermaid look like a pile of yesterday’s garbage.

In the end, he had been forced onto a train and out of New York by some crook in a priest’s collar. He wasn’t even going somewhere splendid like gold-rich California; he was going to some distant nowhere place called _Minnesota_.

In New York, Rudolph, Rudy to everyone worth a spit, was a Newsboy. It was a tough life, but he didn’t mind it really. He had been doing it since he was five. He had started out as an apprentice to a rough and tumble older boy named Jim Slack who had taught him everything he needed to know.

Things like-don’t smoke in front of upstanding lady buyers if you can help it. Don’t let shopkeepers sell you watered down three-cent whiskey. Always sell your unsold papers back at full price and, most important of all, don’t poke cart-horse carcasses in the summer: they explode.

Jim had also warned Rudy about Newsboy’s lodging houses and the boy felt a bone deep regret that he didn’t take that advice more to heart. The Manhattan boy’s house-That’s how vazey “Father Jollocks” had gotten a greasy hand on him.

Rudy had been spending his nights on the street so he could save up his money, put it to some good use; maybe a room of his own. He didn’t like wasting five cents for a night in a lice-ridden bed, in an overcrowded bunkhouse. Sometimes there were as many as a hundred other boys there, and they all had sticky fingers.

Still, sometimes he just couldn’t avoid it; the weather had been so cold. January never seemed to end, and he had already heard of four kids his age found frozen in back alleys.

One night was all it took to get caught.

One freezing night in a lodging house and the next thing Rudy knew he was being thrown into a bathtub and told he had a train to catch.

they called them Orphan Trains.

All the newsies and ragpickers and pickpockets knew about the Orphan Trains.

Religious workers swarmed the streets looking for orphans or foundling babies or kids from bad families that drank.

They would whisk em off never to be seen again.

Some kids said that they were sent to factories in the South since the slaves had all been freed in Lincoln’s war. Others claimed they were sent to work in coal mines so deep under the earth they would be old when they came back up.

Father Jollocks and the dough-faced ladies from the Children’s Aid Society said they were going to be adopted by willing farm families.

Turned out the religious people were telling the truth. Kids were marched from the streets onto the trains and taken out to the sticks. They stopped at little Podunk, nowhere towns and yokel country folk would come sniffing. They adopted whichever kid looked healthy enough to push a plow or milk a cow.

Rudy had been dragged from his hard-earned paper corner and his gang of boys. He had been separated from his well-trod warren of city boroughs and filthy backstreets. All that to be given away to total strangers in another state.

Outside the train window Rudy watched an endless flat expanse of Iowa go streaming past. The sky was leaden grey, and the earth was dead brown.

The newsboy had liked trees and such but, most of what he had seen had been in Central Park. Central Park wasn’t really a safe place for a kid his age, older boys with bigger gangs hung around there so he kept his distance.

Now, all he could see was trees and grass and occasionally a few hills. The emptiness of it scared him, there was too much space. How did people live without big buildings and crowds and the clicking of carts on cobblestone?

When he was first put on the train in the new starched shirt and pressed pants Rudy had been too afraid to fight much. He had been packed into a cattle cart full of benches with about a hundred other kids and three or four aid society volunteers. That first cart had no windows so, through most of Pennsylvania and Ohio, he had no idea where the hell he was.

He didn’t know any of the other kids in the car.

There were a couple newsies, but they weren’t from his neighborhood and they didn’t look in the mood to talk. There were a lot of babies too and they never stopped crying. The car was dusty and made the kids cough, they got yelled at if they soiled their clothing.

Father Jollocks, the name he had taken to calling the boss of the whole thing, told the kids they were going to nice new homes far away from New York. He said they would have new parents and new jobs; Rudy saw the scam right away. They might not have been sold to coal mines or paper mills, but they were still being given away to work.

So, Rudy kept his mouth shut and waited. Unlike the rest of these Pigeon-livered babies, he was going to escape the first chance he got. He would walk back to New York if he had too.

Besides, he wasn’t really an orphan anyway. He debated telling the Father or one of the lady aid workers that he had a mum, he just didn’t see her that often; he decided it didn’t matter.

His mum spent most of her time in Chinatown.

She was a prostie, a lot of the kids had mums like that so there wasn’t shame in it. Rudy knew his mum worked in the poppy dens and with sailors. She liked laudanum and singing loudly in German; he hadn’t seen her in three months.

That didn’t mean she was _dead_, and for sure she would miss him if he got sold off to some country foozlers. She would probably even tell the police he was missing and then the good Father would really get his teeth smashed in.

A few days into the train ride they stopped in some town where none of the buildings were taller than one story and paraded out in front of a bunch of gawking idiots in Sunday dress.

The Father had put kids up on a block in the center of down and some of them sung songs or recited poetry. Townsmen jammed their fingers in the kid’s mouths looking at their teeth like they were looking to buy a new carthorse.

Rudy hadn’t been able to escape but he didn’t speak a word on the block and when the Father tried to force him, he had acted stupid. Nobody put their hands in his mouth, but if they had Rudy would have bitten them.

He had watched a pair of Irish sisters throw a fit when they were separated in Indiana. In a different town two grown women had fought over a baby. All the while Rudolph continued to play dumb.

When he finally did speak somewhere in Illinois he had spoken only in German. He knew English but his Uncle Otto, lost to typhoid for over a year, had taught him German. Turned out nobody wanted to adopt a kid they didn’t understand.

Weeks in the cattle car and they stopped at city after city. Eventually Rudy gave up on escaping and walking back, they were just too far. Still, he remained stubbornly on the train as it got emptier and emptier. Rudy was determined not to get picked now. If he managed to get to Minnesota, to the final stop on the trip, and nobody took him then maybe-maybe they would just take him back to New York.

At a train station in Illinois Rudy and the last of the orphans, they were down to fifteen, waited for the cattle car to be hooked to a new engine. Something had gone wrong with the couplings and somehow, miraculously, the kids had been upgraded to a nice heated car at the front of the train.

Rudy could hardly believe the difference.

The traveling cars had nice seats with upholstered backing. It was a long way from the hard wood that had hurt his back and numbed his backside after hours of sitting. The car also had glass windows and a small iron stove near the front.

Rudy took an empty seat at the very front of the car, near the stove and away from the other kids. Most of the children were lulled to sleep almost instantly, Rudy couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from that great emptiness outside.

Snow started to fall, it slammed sideways across the car with the wind and rocked the train slightly on its tracks.

Hugging his own shoulder’s Rudy tried to calculate exactly how long he had been gone. Had his mum noticed yet? Was she in one of her stupors? Was his gang alright without him, would Ben and Will and-

The familiar rattling of an unfolded newspaper caught Rudolph’s attention and he startled. The train car’s seats were arranged in groups of four. Two seats facing front and two facing back; there was about a foot of space in-between.

When he sat down Rudy had been alone but, at some point, a man had slipped in to sit in the seat across him. He had been so absorbed in the window he hadn’t even noticed.

The instant Rudy laid eyes on him the man looked over his newspaper and gave the little boy a sharp grin.

Rudy jerked and looked away, unsettled. The stranger was wearing strange glasses with smoky, black lenses. They wrapped around his face and made it hard to tell where the man was looking.

“Enjoying the view?”

The man was addressing him directly and Rudy cringed. He ignored the question and stared even harder at the wet snow smacking hard against the window, blotting out the scenery beyond.

“I’ve seen better. You come all the way from New York?”

Why wouldn’t this Ratbag get the hint? Rudolph decided to pull out the old German trick, it had worked so far. He looked at the man and tilted his head to the side, deceptively wide-eyed.

“<Sorry Ratbag, I don’t speak English.>”

The glasses man laughed; a thick luxurious noise that ended in a throaty inhale of breath that sounded like a hiss.

“<Good thing I speak German.>”

Rudy gaped at the man and felt his skin flush red until his ears burned. He scowled and glared as the stranger folded his paper and stuck it on the empty seat beside him.

“<You telling a thumper to the priest huh? I respect that.>”

The man was skinny, the type of lean skinny Rudolph saw in slum dwellers and Five Points Fighters: pole thin. It was strange considering the rest of him reeked of a lally-cooler; He looked posh, his dark clothing unsullied and made of rich fabric. Neither his elbows nor his knees showed the slightest sign of being threadbare.

His hair was as red and wavy, just like the Irish sister’s hair; the ones given away several towns ago. Rudy didn’t think he was Irish though, he didn’t have a Paddy accent. He sounded like a Lime-juicer; British.

“<I don’t wanna talk to you.>”

The Limey stranger’s sly smile only grew in size, he had unnaturally white, sharp, even teeth.

“<Well, I want to speak to you.>”

The strange man removed his tall hat and laid it on his newspaper. He had a cane balanced between his knees, the top of it was made of polished silver and looked like a rearing snake, ready to strike.

Rudy drew his legs up under him on the chair and folded his arms tight. He had done his stint pick-pocketing when he trained under Jim. He was five then and most of his targets had been well-heeled men and women who didn’t notice their purse strings cut.

He hadn’t witnessed it, but Rudy had heard of another street kid round his age who was caned to death by a lally-cooler. The man hadn’t gotten into any trouble over it either, rich people never did.

They took what they wanted.

Rudy glanced around and wondered if he could switch seats without drawing attention to himself. The man just reclined and watched him thoughtfully.

“<Been a rough trip. Eh, Rudy?>”

Rudy froze. The man reached forward and flipped the edge of his newsie cap out of his face with that strange, knowing smile.

“<How did you…>”

“<I know a lot about you Rudolph. You’ve been sinning since you were two, how could I not?>”

The memories Rudy had of his uncle were a mixed bag. He had been kind when he was sober; but he wasn’t sober often.

Between bouts of meaner mania, he told Rudy stories filched from his homeland. He raved about Siegfried and Brunhilda, Hansel and Gretel and Lutzlefrau the Christmas witch. But Uncle Otto’s favorite story was about Faust; the man who made a deal with the devil.

Rudy pursed his lips and really gave the glasses man a good long look.

The red hair, clean clothing, pale skin and white smile. What he thought had been a smoky smell coming from the little potbelly stove at the front of the train car, Rudy now realized was drifting off the man.

“<You’re Mep-Mephis-t-topheles, Faust’s Mephistopheles!>”

Rudy said boldly, proud that he only struggled with the name a little.

The man laughed again, gave a furtive, overdramatic look around the car and pulled his glasses down for just a second to wink. His eyes were bright yellow, the dark pupils slit like a cats-eye.

Rudy gasped.

The thin man readjusted his glasses on his pointy nose, raised an elegant, gloved hand and gestured to a convenient train porter. He asked them if the train served drinks aboard. Rudy couldn’t recall seeing the porter before, he had apparently emerged out of nowhere.

Once the porter was gone to get the drinks the Demon, for Rudy was sure that’s what he was now, was looking at him again.

“<So, are you going to run back to New York?>”

It was probably natural to be afraid of a Demon once you met one, but Rudy didn’t find the slim, well-spoken man very menacing. He was less scary then an actual, real rich person. Maybe that was the point. Demons were supposed to be good at luring you in.

The boy decided there was no harm in talking to the Demon. He just had to be careful and not accept any bargains; Rudy wouldn’t be an idiot like Faust.

“<Course. Nothing out here but a bunch of yokels.>”

“<Mmm, you got something waiting for you back in New York? You some kind of great gun there?>”

“<My mums there and I have a gang. It’s small but it’ll be bigger, biggest one in the city. I’m Gonna sell papers and maybe I’ll be a boxer like my dad was. Whip my weight in wildcats!>”

Well, in truth, Rudy didn’t really know if his dad had been a boxer. His mum said it was possible. She was never sure who his dad was.

Either way he was going to box when he was older. Boxers were respected in even the worst places.

“<That so?>”

The Demon’s constant smile flagged a bit. He hummed thoughtfully and turned just as the porter came back with a glass of red wine. He also had a small tumbler of something that looked like gin which he handed to Rudy. Rudy was disappointed to find it was just apple cider: only mildly alcoholic.

The boy scowled at it.

“<Maybe someday I’ll open a tavern and I’ll be able to drink as much gin and rum as a I want.>”

“<Big plans, Rudolph.>”

Rudy looked up from his glass to see Mephistopheles pursing his lips and glowering into his wine. He swirled it around in small circles, letting the liquid lap at the edges of the clean glass. 

The cider wasn’t too bad Rudy decided, and, for some miraculous reason, It made his cigarette cravings ease; He had been longing for a cig since they left New York.

The Demon sipped his wine and scratched casually at a muttonchop.

“<Mmm. You know if you would just…mmm- no.>”

Mephistopheles trailed off as if he had lost interest in his own sentence. Rudy frowned.

“<If I just…what?>”

Another casual taste from the glass and the Demon leaned his hand onto his chin. He looked out like he was suddenly very interested in the smudgy view out the window.

“<Well if you just…Oh, no you wouldn’t be interested. You’ve got big plans in New York after all.>”

Bouncing impatiently, Rudy unfolded his legs and reached out to give the Demon a light tap in the shin.

“<What? What wouldn’t I be interested in?>”

Taking another maddeningly long sip of his drink, the Demon smacked his lips loudly; savoring the flavor before he answered.

“<Wouldn’t it be more satisfying…to go back to New York already filthy rich?>”

Rudy curled his lip and kicked his legs over the side of his nice seat.

“<I can’t do that.>”

The train rattled, shaking quietly from side to side as a howling wind went sweeping past. It made a shiver run through Rudolph’s small body.

Fiddling with the edge of his sunglasses the Demon sniffed.

“<Mmm, maybe if you came back a Lawyer or a Doctor -that would show everyone how you got ahead of the riff raff without throwing a punch. Just imagine it.>”

Imagining it wasn’t hard. Rudy thought about wealth constantly when he slept on streets littered with animal corpses and shoeless kids.

If he was rich, he could go to Barnum’s whenever he wanted. He could buy his mum a huge house on fifth street and hire her some servants. He could take his boys to fancy parties and ride steamships. He could pay off some politician to make a new law declaring newsboys got three cents a paper sold instead of just one; hell, maybe even _five cents_.

The Demon cleared his throat, breaking Rudy out of his fantasy.

“<You’re smart Rudy. You could do more; you don’t have to be like everyone else. You can break away, be better. This is your chance.>”

The train jostled, one of the orphans cried out softly, mumbling as they slept. An aid society woman hushed them, probably before a paying passenger complained. Rudy sipped sadly at the remains of his cider; it warmed him down to the bones.

“<I-my mum and the other kids. I can’t just clear out and leave em.>”

At first the Demon looked mad. His narrow eyebrows creased, and he opened his mouth quickly, inhaling a breath as if he was prepared to say something sharp.

Then he stopped himself, and when he spoke, he actually sounded…sad.

“<I know how it is to-to leave people behind. I also know about selfishness. It’s technically a sin after all. Selfishness is like Greed and I am a very greedy demon.>”

Rudolph loved when adults spoke to him this way, like he was smart, like he was on the same level as them. It was a rare occurrence. Even Uncle Otto spoke down to him at his most sober. Maybe it was another of Mephistopheles tricks, but the boy found himself paying very close attention.

“<But there are different types of Greed and sometimes…Sometimes Greed can be very good. Not just for you but for…egh…_everyone_.>”

Shuddering, the lanky man-shaped thing seemed to tamp down a gag. Rudy felt sure he was putting on an act but decided to keep mum about it.

“<St. Paul isn’t New York but you can be _s_elfish there. Go to school, get an important job. Have the chance to get all the things you want. Including, ugh, _helping_ people. If that’s what you need.>”

The Demon stifled another gag and took a long, hungry gulp of wine. He gargled it, like he was cleaning his mouth of something foul.

“<Oh.>”

Rudy glared at his empty cider glass.

Finding something for himself away from New York had never crossed Rudy’s mind. But now, for some odd reason, he could picture it all very clearly. If he found a nice family, maybe they could help him go to school, learn to read. If he could do that it would be much easier to make his way up in the world.

Come to think of it, he had never been much of a scraper anyway. He won less than half of the fights he was in; maybe the boxer dream wasn’t for him. He would need to tell his mum where he was somehow, but...

Maybe Mephistopheles was right.

Heavy, wet tears started to build up in the corners of Rudy’s eyes. He wiped at his face roughly, pressing until his skin felt raw. Crying was for babies and the younger kids; he hadn’t cried once the whole trip and he wouldn’t start now.

“<Fine…but I’m no yokel!>”

The Demon nodded gravely, his lips in a firm line.

“<No. I firmly believe you are nothing of the sort Rudy. Now-.>”

Setting his empty wineglass down onto his seat, the Demon picked up his hat with a magician’s flourish. Rudolph watched mesmerized as he put it on and tapped the top, so it sat snuggly over his ears.

“<When you are put up on the block in St. Paul, say something in German. Tell the Faust story if your so fond of it. I think you’ll find something good will come out of it.>”

“<Why should I trust you! You’ll want my soul or something…>”

Muttering to himself Mephistopheles rose to his feet and tucked his beautifully polished cane under one arm.

“<Rudy, I’m just giving you some friendly advice and some sociable temptation. You have the free will to do what you want with it. I’ll just say you haven’t been doing your soul any favors->”

Reaching out a hand the Demon rapped his knuckles gently on the top of Rudy’s head. It didn’t hurt and the boy got a brief whiff of a delicious pungent smell; it was like pinewood fire smoke and piping-hot, spiced bread.

“<-So, don’t be stupid.>”

With that the Demon, looking every inch a high-class gentleman, sashayed towards the front of the train car. For a brief instant the car was filled with darkness as the overhead lanterns flickered and in the space between one breath and the next Mephistopheles was gone.

_ Heathrow Airport, London, England: Present Day_

Theckla Sallow had a terrible name but she was not, in truth, a terrible person.

She had been abandoned in a tube station at birth, then found by a busker in a basket near a rubbish bin. There was no note, only her name written in permanent marker on the skin of her bare arm. Her childhood was mostly downhill from there.

Theckla spent her youth being passed through the foster care system like a piece of lost luggage. She had more foster parents than she could remember, and she was sure none of them remembered her.

She got satisfactory grades, though not extraordinary. She was alright at sports but not exceptional. Theckla had no ear for music, couldn’t draw a straight line and her cooking skills amounted to milk on cereal.

There were, however, two things Theckla was exceptionally good at and she made good use of both of them.

The first was what she liked to call “background extra syndrome.” Most of Miss Sallow’s foster parents had used television as a sort of babysitter. Because of this she had watched hours and hours of cop dramas and soap operas. As she grew up the young girl liked to make a game of watching the actors hired to just stand in the backgrounds

Sometimes they would pick their noses, wave or even make goofy faces; once she even saw a man in the back of an action film make a rude gesture with his hand. But she seemed to be the only one paying attention. No one cared about what people who weren’t the main characters were doing, even if you pointed it out.

The same, Theckla realized, went for herself. She passed through the background of her own life and, even if she made a rude gesture with her hand, she was sure no one would notice. Theckla possessed a level of true invisibility that, while isolating, was more a benefit than a curse.

Theckla avoided bullies, angry foster families and nasty teachers. She sat in the back of classrooms, wore a lot of brown and grey and did her level best not to do anything remarkable. She became a crowd-filler, a character at the back of the mob that booed or cheered while the chosen ones had their plotlines in the space adjacent. And, honestly, she liked it that way.

This was mostly because of her second ability.

From the moment she could form memories Theckla realized she liked things more than people. She knew some humans had a knack of communicating with other humans, animals, even plants.

Theckla could feel emotions resonating off waffle irons and desk lamps. She knew if the tea kettle was having an off day and understood that her third foster mother’s television disliked the trashy talk shows it was forced to play.

She didn’t really know how to explain it and not all objects gave off these odd flurries of emotion. Mostly it was older things, or things that were well-loved. The older and more used the object, the more distinct their thoughts and personality seemed; it was just easier for Theckla to “tune in” to their frequency.

Some of the most intelligent things would even answer back if they felt like it. Never with words but, sometimes with a flick of a switch, or an unspoken wave of emotion. Theckla was smart in her own way and knew enough to keep the odd empathetic connection to intimate objects to herself.

So, the years passed.

When Theckla turned seventeen she realized she had only one year left within the foster care system. She had no goals, no business connections and most of her friends were kitchen appliances. This left her options for post-secondary school extremely limited.

Although she had never been particularly devout, Theckla discovered that some religious orders would help pay for university online if you did community service. That sounded great. Room, board and school to boot.

So, she sent out applications for sisterhood to every nunnery she could find. Unfortunately, the one that answered was located near a quaint village called Tadfield.

She hadn’t really meant to form a pact with the devil, but things don’t always go as planned. 

If Sallow had read her entrance paperwork better, she probably would have seen the fine print about her immortal soul. But she didn’t and that’s how Theckla Sallow became Sister Sallow of the Chattering Order of Saint Beryl, a satanic order of very talkative, agreeable nuns.

Several years and one satanic baby switch gone bad later and Theckla had been forced to find another line of work. She did and was currently fairly content with her way of life.

Which is exactly when the Demon came to her door with the bad news about her soul.

That was why Theckla Sallow currently stood at the international arrival’s gate of Heathrow airport. She held a hastily made cardboard sign in both hands. The sign read:

“_Welcome Mr. Jersey Leeds_”

No matter what the sign said, Miss Sallow was not looking forward to meeting her new partner in crime. The Demon, Hastur-she thought that was his name, had been very blunt with her instructions. He hadn’t elaborated about what Mr. Leeds looked like, he just said he was American and that he would be very stupid.

Those were his actual words. He had just told her that this person she would be working with to nullify her soul contract would be stupid.

“Do you really think he’ll be stupid?”

From inside the backpack Miss Sallow carried there was an answering wave of emotion that amounted to.

_ Who knows?_

At least that’s how Theckla interpreted it.

If airport security had thought to check Theckla’s bag, given the suspicious way she was mumbling to it, they would have found her wallet, phone, and a very old looking desk fan made sometime in the 1930’s.

The fan’s name was Emerson.

Emerson was Theckla Sallow’s best friend. He was also an antique oscillating electric fan. She had met him at a yard sale when she was twelve and they had been close ever since. Not only was he an excellent listener he added a pleasant breeze to any confined space and provided first-rate white noise.

She didn’t like to leave home without him.

Another ten minutes passed into twenty, passed into forty and Theckla glared at a large clock hanging near the gate. She had been waiting here for nearly two hours. The flight had supposedly landed nearly an hour and half ago. She hadn’t seen any international passengers come through to the baggage claim in quite a while.

“Maybe I got the flight wrong.”

The wave of adamant indignation from the bag set Theckla at ease.

_ No. Demon said this one.”_

Emerson seemed to suggest this with certainty. He had been in the room at the time and Theckla knew his memory was better than hers.

“Perhaps I should go to the help desk and-wait…”

A young man was walking very slowly down from the terminals into the new arrivals area. He was dressed in some kind of Metal Band t-shirt, torn jeans and a green hoodie that was much, much too large for him. 

Theckla could barely see his features through the thick tangle of black hair falling over his face, but she could see him taking in the dingy wonders of the Heathrow airport like a tourist outside Buckingham palace.

His gait was…off. It looked like he was trying to walk on tiptoes, or perhaps he was dragging his feet? Or both? Every few steps he would stop and stare at something that had caught his attention. A display of keychains in a giftshop, an advertisement for a taxi service, even the pattern on the carpet under his shoes; it all seemed to enthrall him in equal measure.

“Oh no. I think he is thick after all.”

Theckla moaned.

_ What’s he doing?_

The feeling of Emerson asked.

“He’s…staring at everything.”

_ You sure its him?_

A gentleman on a cellphone rushed past the young man, or boy really, he didn’t look older than fifteen, and he jumped back so fast he was a blur. He bared his teeth at the man’s retreating back and, though she couldn’t hear it, Theckla was_ absolutely_ certain he had just growled.

She sighed deeply

“Mmm, I would put money on it.”

After another solid fifteen minutes of meandering the kid was beyond the security gates and into the international receiving area. He glanced around methodically, his gaze eventually falling on Theckla and her sign.

She stood there holding back a nervous laugh, unsure what to do. Gaze never leaving the sign, the strange kid stumbled forward and finally stopped a foot away from Theckla. He tilted his head to the side a few times and eventually he spoke.

“I’m…eh, Jersey Leeds. Are you my partner?”

He sounded young, maybe even younger than fifteen Theckla thought. There was a strange quality to his words outside the American accent. It was almost like he was speaking around something large in his mouth. A lisp caused by a heavy tongue unused to speaking aloud.

“Hah-well I suppose I am. My name is Theckla Sallow.” 

She offered a hand to shake and it took a few seconds for boy to reciprocate; his fingernails were black, but it didn’t look like nail polish.

He held her hand way longer then was comfortable then pulled back, folding his arms across his chest. Theckla realized she was probably going to have to do most of the talking.

“Well-uh…are you hungry? I’m sure its been awhile since you ate.”

The boy nodded cautiously.

“On the plane they had food, but the tray wasn’t even the size of one squirrel. Usually I eat at least three squirrels for dinner.”

When Leeds saw Theckla’s expression he backtracked.

“Hungry. Yeah.”

When she had served with the Order Theckla knew that Demons visited once in a while, but she had never seen one before Hastur appeared to bring her out of retirement. She wondered if Jersey was a Demon or…maybe Demon adjacent; they really hadn’t told her shit.

“Well I know a nice place not to far. We’ll grab my car, go get something to eat?”

Jersey took one last, long look around the airport and nodded.

“Ok.”

“Do you need to get your luggage?”

Scratching at his neck, Jersey just shook his head and started walking towards the carpark exit. The fact it was the exit to the carpark just seemed like good luck on his part.

Theckla Sallow sucked in a breath through her teeth and followed him, welcome sign folded under her arm.

“Alright, remember Theckla this is for your immortal soul. Let’s just, get it over with.”

_Sooner than later. _

Emerson agreed wordlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Notes for this chapter:
> 
> Orphan Trains were a real thing in the United States starting in 1854 (a little before the civil war) and going all the way until 1925 (a little before the Great Depression). Aid groups would put loads of orphaned and "abandoned" kids (some who still had living parents) onto trains (usually in cattle cars) and take them out to small towns all over the US. They would be adopted by all sorts of people. Some good and others eh, not so good. Mostly they were needed for farm labor. The program placed over 200,000 orphans. Kids were put on blocks in each town and examined. This is actually where the term "Up for Adoption" comes from. Crowley loves kids, he would HATE this.
> 
> Newsboys traveled in gangs and trained younger kids to steal or pickpocket. Older boys took apprentices. Kids who weren't newsies did other stuff to survive (the Disney movie is...inaccurate). Some sorted through trash to sell off bits of fabric that had been thrown away (ragpickers). Kids drank and smoked at RIDICULOUSLY young ages.  
There was no public sanitation service so the streets were filthy and often covered in crap and pig, dog and horses corpses. In hot weather they would bloat and explode. EVERYTHING smelled bad.
> 
> 1800's Lingo:  
Vazey: Stupid, an idiot  
Jollocks: Fat, ugly person  
Pigeon: livered- Cowardly  
Foozler:clumsy, slow, bungling  
Ratbag: Weirdo, eccentric  
Thumper: a huge lie  
Lally-cooler: Soft, spoiled super rich person  
Paddy- Horrible slur used to describe Irish immigrants in New York  
Lime-Juicer: offensive slang for a British person. Apparently the Royal Navy tried to prevent scurvy by giving their men Lime juice which is ironic since it doesn't contain enough vitamin C to do a damn. This is where the insult Limey originated. Weird right?  
Great Gun: An early form of the phrase Bigshot, usually a politician or person in power  
Whip My Weight in Wildcats: To beat the snot of em, to win a big fight. Possibly my favorite bit of 1800's slang. It slips off the tongue
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	3. The Prize at the Bottom of the Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mentions of AIDS, death and historically accurate homophobia this chapter.

_ Steak and Bones American Style Diner, London, England: Present Day_

The restaurant was gaudy. The walls were covered in vinyl records and framed posters of old American movies. The tables, chairs and walls were all painted in some variation of red, white and blue; a United States nightmare. The Jersey Devil really didn’t pay much attention to the décor. He was too focused on the enormous plate of food Theckla was offering him.

“All this…is mine?”

Jersey poked the dish, snorting loudly as he sniffed at the hot food. Theckla Sallow laughed nervously, watching the weird kid shift inside his sweatshirt. She still hadn’t managed to see much of his face, just dark hair and a flicker of the feature’s underneath.

“Yes? Is it too much? You said you didn’t care what you ate, so I just got you a burger and a small order of cris-er, fries.”

Poking a sharp nail into the top of his burger, Jersey watched in amazement as steam rose from the warm sesame-seed bun. He had only seen his food steam in the winter, right after it was freshly killed.

The Jersey Devil had seen hamburgers before, campers ate them, but he never thought he would get a whole one to himself. Jersey only got to taste cooked meat when it was thrown away; he had a bad habit of raiding trashcans.

He could hardly believe he was _here._

The airplane had been overwhelming, all his senses were constantly inundated with new information. He had never smelled of so many different people in once place. It was impossible to ignore the combined sounds of breathing, machinery whirring and rushing air. Flying in a plane was _nothing _like flying with his own wings.

In the Pine Barrens the Jersey Devil had seen plenty of small structures; cabins, fire-watch towers and ranger stations. He had even traveled to the outskirts of a small suburb once or twice, just to see what it was like. The two-story houses had impressed him, he couldn’t believe how large buildings had become.

Being impressed by a residential neighborhood seemed laughable now.

In London, everything was _bigger _than a two-story house. The people were noisy and the traffic deafening. There were colors Jersey had never seen before, not even on television. He didn’t want to admit it but the moment he left the Barrens he began to feel…scared.

He had _wanted_ this life out among people, but he hadn’t expected it to be so huge and chaotic. Jersey felt exposed all the time, unsafe; like his throat was laid bare to a million sets of alien teeth. The clothing the Demon’s gave him only helped a little, the hood especially. The Devil had to constantly remind himself that he looked human now. No one was paying attention.

Nobody, except the woman who had picked him up from the plane building; the one who was evidently his partner.

There was something very strange about her. She called herself Theckla Sallow and Jersey had to ask her to repeat her name four times before he finally learned it. Her name was a slippery, insubstantial thing and he just couldn’t grasp it no matter how hard he tried. Jersey was only able recall it when she told him specifically not to forget; it was like she had given him permission to remember.

It was also very hard for Jersey to remember what Theckla actually _looked _like. If he glanced away too long, he would forget her eye and hair color, what shape her face was, what her voice sounded like. It made the Legend wonder if the outside world was making him lose his mind.

No, Jersey was sure the forgetfulness was concentrated on his partner. He could picture the face of the man who had seated them when they entered the restaurant. He could easily recall what the couple two tables over was wearing.

It was only Theckla he had trouble remembering. Luckily, her smell was very distinct and if he lost track of her, he could easily follow that. She smelled like dust, cardboard warmed by the sun and very old wood; a good sensible smell.

Theckla gestured to the burger again, picking up a utensil to pick at her own pile of meat and bread.

“Try it…If you don’t like it, I’ll get you something else ok?”

Licking his lips Jersey picked up his hamburger, amazed at how big it was, and took a massive bite. His fangs sunk into the vegetables, meat and sauce as flavor exploded over his tongue. His eyes rolled back into his head in ecstasy.

“Mmm…”

Theckla felt an actual smile cross her face. She knew picking an American restaurant was the right choice; make the guy feel at home. She wanted to make a good first impression. It had been a long time since she gone out with an actual, living person. Emerson really didn’t have much to say about food, it wasn’t something she could share with her other antique acquaintances.

“Pretty good?”

Jersey nodded eagerly, his cheeks bulging as he took another huge bite without swallowing the first. Theckla pushed her soda glass his direction as he struggled to get everything down without choking.

“Careful! Here-take a drink. I forgot to ask for water so uh, we can share. Hope you like Cola?”

Jersey considered the bubbling glass, sniffing at it before taking an experimental sip. It was good; _REALLY good. _It was sweet and the Devil couldn’t believe how it tickled the inside of his mouth. Soda was a word he knew but all the half-empty cans he sipped from had never been fizzy like this.

He tipped the glass back taking huge gulps of the wonderful drink, stretching his long, blue tongue into the glass and through the ice-cubes to lick the syrupy bottom. Theckla felt her eyes widen.

“Uh, I-I’ll get a refill.”

Running his tongue over his new, weirdly- flat mouth, Jersey went back to his burger. He couldn’t shove it in his mouth fast enough and by the time his new partner had gotten the soda glass refilled his plate was utterly empty. He licked the remaining ketchup and meat juice from the smooth surface, savoring every last drop.

Theckla tapped the tabletop a few times to get his attention.

“So…Mr. Leeds. Are you-um, are you a Demon?”

The young woman lowered her voice conspiratorially as she said the word Demon, so low Jersey almost didn’t catch it. He frowned at his empty plate, glancing around for any convenient garbage cans he could raid for scraps.

“No.”

“Oh, are you-are you something…something else?”

Jersey shrugged, remembering the phrase that the Demon Beelzebub had used when they first met.

“I’m an Abnormality.”

“I-huh. Can’t say I’ve heard of that before.”

Theckla pushed her glasses up her nose cutting at her chicken and waffle with a fork. The kid, abnormality, kept staring hungrily at food being delivered to adjacent tables. Theckla sighed and shoved her plate towards Leed’s side of the table.

“Here, you can have mine.”

Jersey hesitated, gaping at the steamy offering. It smelled good, good and different from his hamburger. The Devil had never seen anything like it before, but it would be rude not to try it when his partner had offered.

Theckla sighed as Leed’s picked up a piece of chicken with his fingers, shoving the entire deep-fried chunk into his mouth. He groaned enthusiastically and licked syrup eagerly from his fingers; It tasted a bit like sap.

Theckla shook her head and reached into her backpack, rooting around Emerson until she found her notebook and a ballpoint pen.

_Everything alright?_

The fan seemed to ask.

Theckla gave Emerson a discreet nod and zipped her bag up again.

“So, Jersey, I guess we should start talking about this-er, _job_ we have to do.”

Deep inside his hood Jersey belched, then answered with surprising eagerness.

“Yeah! We have to kill the Demon. You know where he is?”

Wincing, Theckla looked around the restaurant to make sure no one was listening. An American accent in itself would attract unwelcome attention, the last thing they needed was someone overhearing their murder plot. She lowered her voice to a whisper, hoping Jersey would take the hint.

“No, I was rather hoping you did.”

Jersey stopped mid-chew, spewing out a wad of half-masticated chicken as he protested.

“What? No. Demons said I would have a partner, plan and a weapon. You’re the partner so You’ve got the plan and the weapon, right?”

“No! They told me there was a plan and a weapon, but I assumed you- “

As if on cue, a broad hand came down palm flat between the two conspirators. The sudden jolt jangled silverware and shook the table as both Theckla and Jersey turned in surprise.

Miss Sallow expected to see a policeman, or perhaps an angry waiter demanding they go make murder plans elsewhere. She didn’t expect to see an exceedingly handsome, well-dressed gentlemen smiling at them like a canary-eating cat.

The man flashed both of them an unnervingly white smile that didn’t reach his shockingly _violet _eyes. Pulling an empty chair from a neighboring table without permission the strange man sat uncomfortably close to Theckla. The predatory smile never left his lips as he launched into a quick, snappy diatribe.

“Hello! Couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about. Given that we were, you know, listening in on it. Hah, just looking for the right time to insert ourselves into the conversation.”

At the word “_ourselves_” another man appeared with a chair in tow. He didn’t have his companion’s brisk energy or striking good looks, but he had the same self-important affect that made Theckla deeply uneasy. The balding man in the brown-coat, the second to join them, sat close to Jersey. The Devil shrank away from him timidly.

The Demon’s, Hastur and Beelzebub, had smelt foul, like rot and decay. These two smelled too clean. They smelled like brand new camping supplies, like a tent that had never been used before; like fresh plastic packaging.

The Legend felt his eyes watering. He rubbed at his nose desperately, trying to get that artificial, sterile scent out of his nostrils.

Theckla opened her mouth, hand raised to interject with…something: a complaint, a question, a thought perhaps. The dashing man with the dark, swept-back hair didn’t give her the chance. He somehow smiled wider, speaking through his teeth like a gracious hyena.

“I’m sure you’ve got questions, but, let me clarify some things first.”

The man reached a gloved hand into his pearly, off-white coat and pulled out a small polaroid picture. He snapped it down onto the center of the table with a flourish.

“Miss Sallow, Mr. Leeds. This- “

He pointed his finger, lip curled in disgust.

“-Is your target. The Demon Crowley.”

Theckla startled.

“How did you know our- “

The violet-eyed man shook his head impatiently.

“You work for us, just like you work for-Look, just look at the picture.”

Theckla eyed them suspiciously but eventually obeyed. She leaned over to look at the photo, her large, oval-shaped glasses inching down her nose. Jersey followed her example uneasily, still uncertain of the sharped-scented men who had materialized out of nowhere.

The little picture on the table showed two men sitting on a bench, deep in conversation. Well, one was sitting, the other was more splayed; his long limbs taking up as much space as possible. The photo seemed to have been taken from a fair distance and definitely without the subject’s knowledge. 

The man in the pearly coat had pointed out spread-eagled one; Theckla assumed this was Crowley. Crowley, which seemed like a strange name for a demon, had red-hair and peculiar, black eyeglasses. In her opinion he looked like your typical posh, upscale prat.

Theckla took a deep breath through her nose, let it out her mouth and put two fingers on the picture, covering most of it.

“Ok-back up a moment. Who, are you two?”

The handsome man’s smile faltered, purplish eyes hardening as he pulled the photo out from under Miss Sallow’s nails. He spoke sharply and Theckla knew his tone well, it was the voice of someone who disliked being questioned.

“I am the Archangel Gabriel, God’s Messenger, the left hand of- “

Theckla straightened, pointing at the man knowingly as she recalled her theology lessons from the Nunnery.

“Oh! The Bible bloke with the horn!”

Gabriel massaged his forehead.

“Unfortunately, because of the little mess these two have caused- “

The Angel jabbed a finger at the photo for emphasis.

“My Horn is back in _storage_.”

“And he never even got to sound it at the end.”

The bald man at Jersey’s elbow added sadly. Gabriel gestured towards him and snapped his fingers impatiently.

“This is my fellow Angel, Sandalphon. Sandalphon, just bring It out. I don’t want to be here any longer then we have to be.”

Still attempting to breathe through his mouth to stave off the smell, Jersey craned his neck so could take a closer look at the picture of their target. Beelzebub had said the name Crowley, but he hadn’t provided a picture. The Legend found he wasn’t very impressed by the Demon. He just looked like a normal guy in a pair of alarmingly-tight, black jeans. He assumed it was a disguise but…_still_.

Demons and Angels, Heaven and Hell-the Devil knew these words but not much else. He had been called a Demon countless times over his life, so he just assumed they were like him in some way; scary-looking and unkillable. Angels were supposed to be nice; he knew that much.

These Angels didn’t seem nice. His partner Theckla was nice; she had given him food and fizzy soda. Jersey decided that if one of the Angels treated her poorly, he would bite their fingers off.

The Devil’s wandering attention was brought swiftly back to earth when the bald Angel, Sandalphon, magically produced a beautiful, golden box and set it on the plain, linoleum tabletop. It was the size of cereal box, and so ornate that Theckla double-checked to see if anyone was watching them.

Miraculously, nobody seemed to notice the Angels or the box.

Theckla couldn’t feel any personality from the box, but she could tell immediately it was old; _very_ old. The box’s opulent, gold inlays were darkened by age and the lid was set with several lines of cut-gems. Rubies, emeralds, pearls and something that looked suspiciously like ivory curled around the box’s hinges and across its thick base.

Crosses and the figures of pious saints adorned every spot that wasn’t taken up by jewels. A scene was carved into reddish wood on the front of the box. Theckla squinted at it and she could just make out an elaborate table covered with all manner of food.

Jersey reached out a sharp fingernail to touch the edge of the gleaming box and snarled in pain as his hand was slapped casually away by Gabriel.

“Ah, ah! Patience is a virtue.”

Adjusting the lapels of his coat importantly Gabriel swept a hand over the top of the bejeweled box.

“This. Is the Reliquary of Saint Hertha.”

With careful reverence, Sandalphon leaned over Gabriel’s side and opened the top of the box with both hands. Gabriel reached inside and withdrew something small and polished from the velvet-lined interior.

Theckla shifted in her seat, struggling to get a better view. The box wasn’t giving off any vibes but whatever the Angel held _certainly_ did.

“And this- “

Gabriel said as he turned the object in his hand.

“-Is the Table Knife of Saint Hertha. The weapon you will use to destroy the Demon Crowley.”

Theckla wasn’t sure what she was expecting but a plain, blunt butter knife was definitely not it. Compared to the box it came in the knife looked very…plain. It was like going to open the biggest present under the Christmas tree only to find it was completely full of socks.

The knife had a rounded blade made of smooth metal, oddly shaped but still rather ordinary. The handle looked like it was made of dirty ivory and there was a simple cross carved at the base. It looked like something a grandmother would buy from a car boot sale.

Jersey spoke up, clearly as unimpressed by the reveal as Theckla was.

“That knifes dull. How am I supposed to stab the Demon with it? How are we going to kill him with that?”

Gabriel massaged a temple and delicately put the holy butter knife back in its extravagant box.

“Stabbing. IS NOT, part of the plan. Trust me. Aziraphale and this knife will be the key to slaying the Serpent. You just have to-”

Theckla couldn’t help but interrupt again; she plucked the discarded polaroid from the tabletop and gave it a second look.

“Is Aziraphale this fellow here? In the waistcoat? We don’t have to kill him to do we?”

Gabriel looked down his nose at Theckla. Slowly, another smile spread over his beautiful face; It was not a pleasant smile.

“No. He’s going to watch the Demon die.”

_Good Samaritan Hospital, Los Angeles, United States of America: 1987_

Martin woke up to the sun in his eyes. It burned, upsetting the migraine laying dormant in his frontal lobe. He moaned, softly and took careful stock of himself.

It was hard to turn his head, the lymph nodes swollen as ever; what a surprise. His joints burned but his skin was cold. Martin couldn’t see them under his hospital gown but at last count he had exactly 15 purple splotches on his chest and stomach; no doubt the number had gone up. Breathing? Bad. Temperature? Highish.

“Well, shoot.”

Martin Collins said to himself.

“Still dying.”

He would have held up a sarcastic hand and snapped in disappointment, but decided it wasn’t worth the energy. Not a lot of people around to be funny for these days.

At one-point Martin had loads of friends; oodles. So many he couldn’t remember all their names. Now, all of his so-called friends had either abandoned him or shuffled off the mortal coil before him. That was fitting, Martin always was the last to leave a party.

Martin had heard whispers about “Gay Cancer” circulating only a week before the first of his friend circle disappeared, never to be seen again. Martin hadn’t paid much attention to it at first. He was busy, shit to do, screenplays to write and a career to launch.

Mr. Martin Collin’s was going to write a movie so funny it was going to blow “Blazing Saddles” out of the water. He was going to make Bill Murray come knocking on his door, begging for his next big hit. He was going to be an honorary Python by the time the 1990’s started or die trying.

Martin hadn’t expected the dying to happen so suddenly. He _really _hadn’t expected the dying to surprise him while he was at the dentist of all places. He’d gone in for a routine checkup, just a simple cleaning. Steve had pressed him to go, talked so much shit about his breath smelling bad.

All it took was one tiny poke in the gums and _boom_; Old faithful. A simple prod with one of those little torture picks and the result was a comical geyser of blood. It was so bad that even the assistant dental hygienist had started laughing. Wow, Mr. Collins you need to floss more often, look at the size of that gusher!

Yeah, real funny, at least until the bleeding didn’t stop; then continued not to stop for an hour. It turned out Martin’s blood had simply lost the ability to clot. A dentist appointment, a few purple spots and suddenly his life is being counted in days.

The joke had _really_ stopped being funny. Goodbye writing career, goodbye Hollywood.

Martin let his cloudy gaze rove tiredly around his hospital room. It was still boring. The walls that putrid, puke green that was supposed to be calming. There were a bunch of beeping machines to remind him he wasn’t dead yet. An IV stand, a small nightstand covered with pills and a chair where people would sit if people actually visited.

Frowning, Martin noticed that his portable TV was turned off. He had asked the nurses not to do that; multiple times. He didn’t like having it off at all if he could help it. The noise was good, the constant lull of human voices. Also, if he wasn’t careful, he would sleep through Sesame Street.

A man had to have his priorities.

Struggling, Martin felt his lower back start to ache. It throbbed deep in the muscles at the base of his spine. He had been on his back too long, needed to move on his side for a while. The move was hard to do by himself, but he could manage it. Eventually, he would have to prove he could turn on his own if he wanted release instead of hospice.

God, he did NOT want to go into hospice.

Hospice meant he was considered too far gone to do much of anything but lay out a welcome mat for the grim reaper. The final curtain would drop sooner rather than later, Martin knew that, but he was still able to breathe somewhat ok. Plus, his weight hadn’t dropped so far into the danger-zone that the osteoporosis talk had come up; he was still hovering at a positively decadent 97 pounds.

Martin blinked at the fog that seemed to hover around the edges of his vision all the time now and tried to focus on his tiny wall-clock. The big hand told him it was around lunch; about time to slop the hogs.

A nurse was obligated to come in and ask him if he could force a few bites of food down. If he was lucky one of the older ladies would be on duty. They didn’t complain as much about touching him and never even attempted courteous small talk. If he asked for help, they would flip his bones, flip on the tv and call it a day.

The only shitty thing about the older nurses was their fucking obsession with Rock-_goddamn_-Hudson. They would gab on about what a damn shame it was Rock Hudson had to die of this. Did Martin know that Rock Hudson had died of the same thing killing him? Did he ever meet Rock Hudson?

They seemed to assume that all the gay guys in Los Angeles just hung out together. Or, worse, that it was his fault Rock was pushing up daisies. When the nurses asked about Hudson all Martin heard them say was- _I don’t understand why a hunky celebrity I liked kissed other men. That makes me uncomfortable and so do you._

Martin got that. He thought Rock Hudson probably had to. It was Probably why he had never come out to the public about the whole, you know, men-kissing thing.

Sucking in a harsh breath Martin gathered himself up and decided he wasn’t waiting for the nurses to come. His back hurt too much and he could almost feel an imaginary bedsore forming.

Wrenching himself forward, Martin struggled to get his upper body up on one elbow. The small effort aggravated his lungs and left him huffing like a winded racehorse. He paused, frustrated and tried to push his hips up so he could turn.

It hurt so _fucking_ much. Even on the relatively soft mattress Martin could feel his pelvic bones jutting through his papery skin. He felt his shoulder buckle and fought to keep the progress he had already made, groaning in frustration.

He was about to let himself fall back, defeated, when warm hands gripped him. One lay firmly on his raised shoulder while the other pressed carefully to his achy, lower back.

“Here, oh-dear boy let me help you.”

The voice was so gentle it made Martin’s brain go temporarily blank.

He leaned into the hands and allowed himself to be shuffled into a much more comfortable position. The tighter muscles in is back relaxed and the hands moved to adjust his pillow pile so he could breathe easier.

His blankets were readjusted, along with his I.V.-Hell, the stranger even tucked a blanket between his knobby knees, so they didn’t press together.

“There we are. So much better. Now, how about some water? You look parched.”

The stranger, the owner of the nice voice and warm hands, sat in the empty visitor’s chair. Using the pitcher and cup at Martin’s bedside, he poured a glass of cool water and added a pink straw from the pocket of his blurry, whiteish coat.

Martin was still so dumbfounded that all he could do was accept the straw, drinking as the stranger held the glass to his chapped lips; It tasted so_ fucking_ good.

Draining the cup Martin felt the water hit his empty stomach and, somehow, stay where it was. He moaned, basking in how nice it was to keep something down. Miraculously, his nausea was suddenly better than it had been in weeks.

Martin tried to focus on the man in the visitor’s chair, struggling to parse him out. He didn’t recognize him but that wasn’t unusual. Especially given his sight was being degraded by an, annoyingly, resourceful infection.

“You…touched me?”

Martin finally managed, embarrassed by the disbelief in his voice.

The whitish, cream-ish lump of man bent forward. He had very blonde hair, almost white, and his face was round, almost chubby. His pretty blue eyes shone out of the blobby mash of colors; they reminded Martin so much of Steve it hurt.

The man spoke earnestly, his sweet voice dripping with sincerity.

“Why wouldn’t I? You needed help.”

“I well, nobody…_Nobody,_ touches me anymore.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

As if to prove how ridiculous it was, the strange man put a kind hand to Martin’s shaggy, greasy hair. He caressed it with such tenderness it caught the young man completely off-guard.

He wasn’t even wearing _gloves;_ the nurses always wore gloves when they touched somebody with-well, somebody with AIDS.

Breathing came easier, the constant pain and tension ebbed, and Martin wondered if maybe his painkillers were making him hallucinate; maybe all this was a really nice dream.

“I’m sorry man. I-do I know you? Were you…did you- know Steve? Did we, have a fling? Like at one of Alexander’s parties? My memories shit and I can’t see you very well.”

The soothing fingers kept knitting through Martin’s hair. He knew it probably felt gross, he hadn’t had a chance to wash it in over a week. The nurse hadn’t even brought him that horrendous dry-wash shampoo that smelled like hangover vomit.

The kind man answered with a smile in his voice.

“Oh no. I just came for a visit. You seemed in need of some heavenly intervention Martin.”

Martin groaned internally. If he wasn’t so damn comfortable, he would have made at least a cursory attempt to pull away from the stranger’s wonderful, incredible touch.

He had been visited by a few different religious groups during his hospital stays and each one had been more awkward than the last.

“Look…I don’t really _do_ religion or God stuff. I don’t want to convert or read your pamphlets and I know that I’m going to Hell for the being-with-men thing. So, I think that covers everything?”

The man huffed, clearly affronted.

“Goodness! You were expressing love! Whoever told you that you would go to Hell for that?”

The stranger seemed downright appalled by the thought. It only sold Martin further on the idea that this was a hyper-realistic dream. One where a cute, obviously gay dude randomly walked into his smelly hospital room and reminded him what being human felt like.

“Oh, I don’t know…everybody? Where have you been?”

“I…well I must confess that I’ve been in Russia for the past year, and before that- “

Martin frowned; eyebrow raised.

“Hold on-Russia?”

The soft, strange man’s voice turned mournful. His hand moved down to rub carefully at the muscles in Martin’s stringy shoulder.

“Mmm, yes. There was a terrible accident there. It was near a city called Chernobyl I believe.”

Martin snorted.

“You are a funny dude. You sure you’re not a club comedian or something?”

“Ah, no-no. I’m an Angel. My name Is Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

A racking cough went through Martin’s body as he belted out a loud laugh.

Aziraphale, which had to be a stage name, lay a firm hand on his side until the coughing eased. It left Martin breathless and dizzy, but it was so good having someone there to help him through it. He felt tears starting to build in the corners of his eyes; they were only partially caused by the coughing.

“Ha-ok. I’ll bite. You’re an Angel. Sorry about the not being into God thing.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer right away. He rubbed small circles on Martin’s back, taking the young man’s other hand in his own. Aziraphale wore a small golden ring; it was on his pinky.

Martin had gone to a party in Beverly Hills once, a big one. There had been all sorts of Hollywood elite there including directors. Oh, and cocaine, there had been _a lot_ of cocaine.

One guy, he couldn’t remember if he was a producer or what, had told him a story about pinky rings. He said that when a Victorian man wasn’t interested in getting married, he would wear a pinky ring on his left hand. Later on, it became more shorthand for: See this ring? I’m gay. Too bad it was just a thing in Ye Olde England.

Martin was pretty sure this British guy was wearing the pretty, gold ring on his left pinky.

Angel man was talking again, prattling away without pausing for breath.

“I can’t say what God is thinking, but I’d like to think She cares for you…and that she isn’t petty enough to care about gender. Especially since her first creations had none. Why just-”

He didn’t mean to interrupt but a horrible thought crossed Martin’s mind and he had to get it out.

“Do you have, _IT_? Is that why you touch me? Is…Is that why you’re here? Did you get checked?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, no Dear. I have a corporeal body, but I’m immune from plague and illness.”

“Oh…uh, congratulations?”

The guy was taking this Angel schtick real seriously. He was going the full Andy Kaufman. 

Aziraphale sighed, his fingers carding gently through Martin’s hair again. It felt so good and despite just waking up the young man could feel himself drifting, moving towards sleep again. He was constantly tired; no amount of sleep was ever enough.

“I’ve heard you’re quite a writer, Martin.”

Martin frowned, unsure how to feel about the sudden subject change.

“Sure, if you count the screenplay for “Beach Creeps from Hell” or “Bikini Planet Slayer.” Not the shit I wanted to write…”

The Angel’s warm hand caressed one of Martin’s cheeks, wiping away a tear. When had he started crying? Maybe the disease was finally starting to affect his brain.

“As nice as those-er, titles, sound. I think you could write something quite different. What about a play? It’s sort of like a motion picture isn’t it? I have a feeling you could write a wonderful play.”

Martin had seen a few plays before, but they weren’t his area of expertise. He was an English major that dropped out of college and ran away to Hollywood. He got jobs by working hard, knowing the right people and taking every opportunity he could; even if the movie was stupid.

Still, for some odd reason the Angel’s proposal sounded…_right_. It sounded like something he was meant to do, and he was stupid for not thinking of it sooner.

The tears came faster, and Martin tried to talk around them, coughing as he did.

“I don’t know where to start or how to write a play. Besides, It’s too late now. I’ll be dead before I finish anything. I-I can barely see, and I probably couldn’t use a fucking typewriter.”

Aziraphale dried the tears as they fell, clucking his tongue in soft admonishment.

“Now, now. That’s an atrocious attitude. I know you can do it! I think you can write something that really helps others. Tell them your own story perhaps. Something that echoes.”

The coughing tapered off and Martin felt a bit of fabric pressed to his runny nose. He wanted to apologize for how gross it all was, for his foul language, for-_for everything._

The Angel hushed him as if he could read his mind.

“Shh, Its alright. You know, I’m not bad when it comes to dictation. If you’d allow, I could come visit, put pen to paper. We could see the thing through together.”

Martin took a moment to just breathe. He focused on the crackly in and out and knew, in a way that cut like a razor blade, that he was never going to leave this fucking hospital. He was going to go to hospice. He was going to be just another “have you seen him lately?” and if he was lucky a square on a gigantic goddamn quilt.

If he couldn’t have his career, his life, he had to do something. A play? Why the fuck not?  
The young man forced himself to look towards Aziraphale and for an instant all he could see was bright, white light in his empty guest chair.

“God, you really are an Angel aren’t you…”

Martin managed with a hoarse laugh.

“I am.

The Angel said primly, and Martin felt the warmth in the chair flicker over his skin.

“Ok Az, ok. I guess we can take a crack at a play. But I get final cut, and I don’t work when Sesame street is on.”

Aziraphale kept a grounding hand on Martin’s shoulder as he felt himself floating into calm, restful sleep.

“That sounds more than fair dear boy, more than fair.”

_ZSL London Zoo, London, England: Present Day_

It was late evening, close to closing time, when Aziraphale entered the front gates of Regent’s Zoo.

No matter how much time passed, Aziraphale never managed to call the London Zoo by its new title. In his mind it would always be the Regent’s Zoo.

He could vividly recall being there when the Zoo opened its doors in 1847, mostly to see the state of the exhibits. He had, in part, blessed the place into being and was personally invested in the welfare of its residents.

Before the Zoo most of the animals had lived in positively _dreadful _little cages in the Tower of London Royal Menagerie. The Angel had never really thought about the Menagerie until 1252 when he had seen the infamous polar bear. It had been a gift to King Henry III from the King of Norway-…Haakon some number or other.

The people of London made a great fuss when the bear was shackled with a chain long enough to allow him to catch fish in the nearby River Thames. Many locals were scared of the thing and demanded it dead, while others found its presence novel and sat at a safe distance to watch the poor animal supplement its appallingly, unbalanced diet.

Aziraphale could_ feel_ it suffering. He could see the flesh rubbed raw under its fettered ankle and see its bones protruding beneath its lackluster fur. He recalled, vaguely, the creation of the polar bear and remembered distinctly how bright its eyes shone beneath its heavy brow bone. 

The King’s bear had no light in its eyes at all.

There was nothing to be done at the time, no miracle that would make King Henry return his creatures to the wild. This trend kept on a painfully long time. King Edward kept lions in spaces with little grass and monkeys of different varieties in a tight, excessively furnished room to amuse visitors.

In the 1800’s, for three pence or a dog to feed to the lions, a person could visit the Tower and it was then that Aziraphale saw his chance. The establishment of a zoo, he whispered to anyone with a position of authority, would be good for the public and excellent for the scientific community; another jewel in the crown that was London.

The Zoo wasn’t much at first. The cages were only slightly bigger and only marginally better kept. The animals lived brief lives that were both confined and stressful. With the Zoo being so very near to Soho, Aziraphale could feel flickers of their agony. It dredged up memories of hundreds of miserable, seasick animals crammed together in a slapdash ark.

With these visions haunting him Aziraphale had pressed humans onward towards better and better conditions both at home and abroad. The Angel won small victories and the war continued on.

The Regent’s Zoo was now a very nice place and the animals well cared for. In some cases, much to the Angel’s relief, downright spoiled. There were rehabilitation goals and breeding programs that keepers in the Tower Menagerie would never have dreamed of.

And, yet…Aziraphale could not help but feel a pang of melancholy every time he entered the gates of the modern London Zoo. He recalled the animals in the Tower; animals he had grown fond of developing arthritis from laying on cold concrete.

With these thoughts a familiar guilt would build. The guilt that made him question Upstairs more than was healthy for an Angel.

It reminded him of Martha, the last passenger pigeon. Something in her aura spoke of a kindred spirit and despite their brief encounter she, and their conversation would often flit across the Angel’s mind. She had gone through so much, endured such loneliness and yet she couldn’t bring herself to hate.

She had reminded him a bit of himself, but she had also reminded him of Crowley.

The Demon was the very reason Aziraphale found himself in the Zoo in the first place. Aside from the odd welfare check, Aziraphale hardly every went into the Zoo proper. He would skirt the edges on jaunts through Regent’s Park, but he never felt the need to go through the front.

These days the place was a mess of children and, though he didn’t dislike children, Aziraphale felt uncomfortable entire field trips of sticky, squirming balls of energy. Crowley was the opposite; he didn’t actively seek out places where kids gathered but he certainly didn’t avoid them like Aziraphale did.

The Angel paused in front of the Gorilla enclosure and glanced at his pocket watch: less than ten minutes to closing time.

Around this time the employees would begin to round up the last stragglers so they could tend to the animals. It was a miracle the kind girl at the front gate had sold the Angel a ticket at all, they were supposed to stop an hour before closing.

Another miracle would make the zookeepers and custodial staff overlook Aziraphale completely. He would have the time and privacy he needed to complete, well, what would no doubt be a difficult conversation.

A cold autumn wind shook the trees around the Angel. He felt a shiver run through him, all the way down to his otherworldly wingtips. There was sense of foreboding he could almost read in the dying leaves but couldn’t bear to think about.

From her habitat beyond the exotic bird safari Aziraphale heard a tiger roar nervously; like she too had sensed something unusual on the breeze. Shaking off whatever preternatural instincts were currently trying to get his attention, Aziraphale turned from Gorilla Kingdom and meandered down the path towards the Reptile House.

The Reptile House in the Reg-_London_ Zoo was one of the most recognizable bits of architecture in the entire city. It was old, by human standards, and for some absolutely batty reason Crowley had taken to using it as a sort of vacation home.

The house was composed of several, long hallways surrounded on either side by large exhibits with a single glass display window. Each varied in size, shape and environmental complexity. Some of the denizens needed a sandy, dry environment while others needed the wet, something like a bog or swamp.

These small cells ran the gamut of the Reptile House, but one was definitely out of place. At any given moment this cell had a “under construction” sign on its empty glass front. Despite the large size of the display it seemed to take up little space. It lay hidden in a shadowy corner between an informational board about amphibian lifecycles and a broken drinking fountain.

The only time the exhibit wasn’t under renovation was when Crowley was feeling especially weary, despondent, or just tired of being human-shaped.

He had told Aziraphale about it around the late 70’s and when asked for an explanation Crowley had simply shrugged. He had smiled and informed the Angel that constant travel to the Amazon tended to be expensive. A long-distance travel miracle would draw attention; so, why not the Zoo? 

Later, over drinks, the Demon had confided in Aziraphale that his hideaway in the Zoo had inspired him to come up with the concept of the timeshare condo; one of his more despicable ideas.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley since the chocolate disaster. Nearly two weeks had passed, and he hadn’t heard anything from the Demon. He had called him, multiple times, and visited both his flat and their usual meeting places.

It was safe to assume Crowley had gone beyond the borders of London. If he chose to the Angel could feel Crowley’s Demonic aura a good hundred miles away. After so many years spent in close proximity, he didn’t pay much attention to the energy flowing from his Downstairs counterpart; until he went missing anyway.

The moment Crowley wasn’t a familiar dark mutter on his ethereal radar, Aziraphale had stretched his perception to the limit to find him. Most of the last two weeks were spent in a deep state of vexation.

Were the Demon’s feet healing? Was he taking care of himself? Was this a repeat of the Holy Water incident? Would he disappear for fifty years? Longer??

Safe to say, Aziraphale was more than a little relieved when he felt the Demon’s smooth, smoky presence. He was only a few miles away, back in London and ostensibly so distressed he felt the need for a stay in the Reptile House.

Aziraphale could barely contain himself. He managed, with an insane amount of will power, to wait an entire day before making the pilgrimage to the Zoo to see Crowley in person, to offer a profoundly sincere and much rehearsed apology.

Entering the old building the Angel took a moment to stand and collect himself. He had long considered it rude to reach out and snoop into his Demon friend’s emotional state. If he wanted to, he could read him as easily as a first edition Austen. But-…

Standing stiffly the Angel drew in a deep breath of the humid air and took purposeful steps through the empty Reptile House.

“Mr. Azzzziraphale?”

A small, airy voice addressed the Angel with polite curiosity. Aziraphale turned and smiled into the exhibit of a young Puff Adder, nodding to her with a small smile.

“Good Evening Victoria, Dear”

The Puff Adder rose slowly, the front of her coiled body pressed to the glass of her enclosure. She didn’t speak English of course, no animal that spoke to Aziraphale did. But, as all animals were God’s creatures, the Angel understood them. Despite his Demon status Crowley could as well, it was probably some remnant of his Angelic roots.

Victoria let her tongue flick the glass a few times before she “spoke” again.

“I heard that Mr. Crowley was-sss here. Are you here to sss-see him?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“I am. Has he spoken to anyone?”

By anyone the Angel meant the other reptiles. They had a rather ingenious telephone system between neighbors. Whole conversations could be exchanged between individual animals in cells on opposite sides of the House.

Victoria shook her head, her delicate feather like scales shifting with the movement.

“No, but there was a ssss-scare. A keeper _noticed_ him. It wasssn’t for long, but it’s-sss never happened before.”

Rubbing his hands together Aziraphale frowned down at his feet.

“Dear, oh dear…”

If Crowley had momentarily let his cover slip, he really was in a right state. It didn’t take too much power to keep a protective mask up and hide from the undesirable people. Crowley only let his guard down if he was completely plastered, or out cold.

Victoria inched up onto one of the warm, square shaped rocks in her enclosure and pressed her soft belly to the glass. She climbed until she was nearly face to face with Aziraphale.

“Are you alright Mr. Azzziraphale?”

The Angel somehow managed a reassuring smile and brushed a trembling hand through his soft, white hair.

“Of course, Dear. Just concerned.”

The Adder eyed him worriedly, her lovely, black tongue struggling to scent him through the thick safety glass. Why was it always the most poisonous, the most_ dangerous_ who were so wonderfully, deceptively kind?

“Ok. Jussst, tell me if I can help at all, alright?”

“I shall Victoria, I promise.”

Giving the Puff Adder a lively wave, Aziraphale started to walk down the exhibition hall. He didn’t stop again but did call out pleasant greetings to a number of frogs, snakes and lizards. Crowley had been coming to the Reptile House for such a long time that all the animals here knew him and, in turn, Aziraphale; some going back generations.

The hall turned sharply and Aziraphale spotted the lit, educational board sputtering near the dusty drinking fountain. He swallowed, putting one foot in front of the other until he stood in front of the floor to ceiling cell of Crowley’s sometimes-exhibit.

It was full of lush greenery, a lovely fake waterfall that fed into a fake stream and at least a dozen warming lamps. A golden plaque on the top of a surrounding guardrail read:

“_Greater Eden Adder_.”

The Adder himself was curled very tightly around the branch of a freestanding log, his red and black coils looking rather dull, devoid of their usual luster.

Aziraphale cleared his throat loudly.

“Er, Crowley?”

The Demon heard the voice and felt his insides scrunch. He wound up tighter, like that could hide his enormous body somehow. Crowley felt stupid, ashamed and unsure what to say. He wanted to tell Aziraphale sorry, had for nearly three weeks.

Crowley had taken the Bentley out on a long drive in an attempt to blow off some steam. It had ended up being so long he had mindlessly taken a ferry across the English Channel and ended up near Kabul before he had sense enough to turn around.

He had been so out of his head he barely remembered how many borders he had crossed to get all the way from the North Sea to the middle of Afghanistan. Even after the exhausting one-hundred and fifty-eight hour drive the Demon was still lost and distraught.

Somehow, he found his way to the Reptile House.

When Crowley didn’t answer Aziraphale spoke again, tone imploring.

“Please, Crowley. Please, speak to me.”

The way the Angel spoke was pained, like Crowley was physically hurting him with his negligence. The Demon trembled, unwound part of his long upper body and poked his spade-shaped head a few inches into the air where Aziraphale could see it. 

“What you want me to say then?”

The smile on the Angel’s face was like a small sun, like a supernova. It made the Serpent wish he had his sunglasses on him. He quickly averted his gaze, tongue tasting the air instinctively.

Sitting down on a bench in front of the exhibit which had not been there a minute before Aziraphale let out a shaky breath.

“I-Crowley, Dear heart, I was worried…”

The Demon bared his long fangs in a moody hiss.

“Why? Afraid I’d finally sodded off? Think I tripped right into a basin of Holy Water? Think I can’t make my way around this sorry world without you anymore?”

“N-no. I-that’s never what I meant. I- “

Crowley began to swing his head from side to side, his body rippling in long hypnotic waves. snakes were notoriously difficult to read emotionally, but Aziraphale found he had gotten quite skilled at it. He recognized this behavior instantly. It was called weaving and, along with looping and jittering, was a symptom of severe stress.

As if on cue Crowley began to slide his head under his tail, looping his long body along the length of his back over and over again. The Demon didn’t even notice he was doing it.

“What do you want Angel? An apology?”

Aziraphale debated miracling away the glass between Crowley and himself. He wanted very badly to take the Serpent’s head in both hands and stroke him over his eye ridges to calm him. The spots were sensitive, it worked like a charm usually.

“No, I don’t- “

The prepared apology flew out of the Angel’s head like frightened bird and he paused, hesitated before just launching into what he felt.

“Crowley, I don’t think apologies from either of us would be helpful. I just wanted to tell you why I acted as I did. Perhaps then you would understand why my words seemed cruel.”

The looping grew worse, but Crowley kept his gaze level on Aziraphale.

“I’m all ears, Angel.”

Aziraphale held his hands to his chest, over his stomach. There was sweat on the back of his neck and he could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

“I was scared. So very scared when you were hurt. I know you did it for me and to you it was a small er, misadventure but, to me the cause wasn’t important. It was…all I could picture was the lack of you in the picture. A thousand ways you could have …er, not _been_. You see?”

Crowley thought he saw but he just flicked his tongue out a few times before nodding quietly.

“Go on.”

“Yes…well. The fear of you not_ being_, made me want to smite you because you didn’t seem to see how badly it scared me that you…might not have _been anymore_.”

“That seems counter-productive. Smiting someone into nonexistence because you’re afraid of them not existing.

Aziraphale felt his throat tighten.

“See, you’re making fun of me.”

Crowley slid forward and the glass separating them was suddenly absent.

“I’m not.”

Aziraphale sniffed loudly, rooting around in his coat for his handkerchief. Crowley gestured with his head.

“Inner left pocket.”

“Ah, thank you.”

“You’ve been standoffish.”

Retrieving the monogrammed handkerchief, the Angel paused.

“I-I have not.”

“Have, sometimes when I sit closer than usual you just bugger off. I thought the chocolate cake would, I dunno, show you I wasn’t just tempting you. That I want to…”

Hissing angrily Crowley tried to hide his head in his own coils. Aziraphale dabbed at his eyes and smiled weakly.

“You were trying to show me you weren’t tempting me by tempting me?”

The looping became jittering then. Crowley had grown so stressed his muscles contracted and released fast enough to cause shaking. Aziraphale stood, reaching out, he spoke low and soothing.

“Oh, Crowley. No Dear…don’t do that.”

“Ngk.”

The Serpent answered.

Crowley felt Aziraphale pick up the front of his long body and pull him delicately out of the exhibit. His lower body slowly unwound from his log and he let it drop, half in and half out of his case.

“We’re both sssstupid.”

The Demon whispered.

“We are.”

The Angel agreed.

“We’re both sssstupid and neither of us knowsss what we’re doing.”

Aziraphale pressed his forehead to Crowley’s. His scales were smooth and warm.

“I suppose we need to learn how to speak to one another about how we feel.”

“Angel, what …are we? I mean, to each other?”

Crowley asked weakly, his tongue just grazing the Angel’s cheek.

“I’m not sure…. but we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“Alright…” 

Slipping around the Angel’s neck Crowley settled. The jittering became an irregular, unpleasant jolt in his muscles. He glanced down at Aziraphale’s waistcoat and back at the Angel’s face.

“You didn’t remove the chocolate ssstain.”

“Mmm, you know that if I do it, I’ll always know the stain was there.”

Aziraphale grasped the rest of Crowley’s body, letting the long Serpent wrap snugly around his chest and waist. There was no reason to hide him, nobody would notice the Angel walking out of the Zoo with one of their attractions anyway.

“I can’t constantly be doing your laundry, Angel.”

“Yes, I know but, you always do it with such style.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel you BITCH. I know talking to animals isn't a book/show canon thing but I love it so much.
> 
> Historical Notes: (lots of research in this chapter)
> 
> A Reliquary is an, often ornate, box or display case that holds a Relic. A Relic is a body part of a saint or sometimes a item made from the body part of a saint. It can also be an item used by an important religious figure. Hellboy uses them alot. Its rad.
> 
> I watched a bunch of documentaries and bits of news footage about the United States/ World AIDS pandemic and I still feel like I only scratched the surface of it. Attitudes about people with AIDS, especially in the late 80's, were goddamn terrible. Many gay men were abandoned by everyone around them, outed to their families and left alone to die. The thing about people refusing to touch them is 100 percent true. The main places affected were big cities like New York, LA and San Francisco.
> 
> Martin Collins isn't a real person but he is based on a few very specific things. The first is Derek Jarman a British Avant Garde writer and filmmaker who was known n Queer film circles for movies like "Sebastiane." He died of AIDS in 1994 and lost his sight in the process when an infection attacked his optic nerves. He made one last film before he died called BLUE which is more like a long-form, spoken word poem about what it was like to live with AIDS and also about the adventures of the color Blue (a metaphor for his blindness) Its beautiful and very sad.
> 
> The second thing is the play Angels in America which is a very long running, successful play about a man who is dying of AIDS. One of the interesting things about Angels in America is the mythology. In the play God grows bored of his Angels so he makes humans to create and change the universe. In the process of this humans begin to destroy Heaven and the more they progress the worse it gets. The Angel warns that humans must end for Heaven to survive which kinda fits with Good Omens portrayal of  
Angels attitudes towards people. 
> 
> I swear to God Neil Gaiman or someone in costuming knew that thing about the pinky ring and they did it on purpose to screw with people who find out about it. When I read about it I just started laughing.
> 
> All the stuff about the Tower of London is true and horrible and interesting. There are actually beautiful statues of the animals at the Tower you can look at today including one of the manacled polar bear cause yeah, that happened too. If you wanna know what the actual London Zoo Reptile house looks like on the inside you probably already know. Its where they filmed that one scene in the first Harry Potter movie where he accidentally frees the boa constrictor. (although I think they've remodeled a bit since then)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Snake in the Grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter (tw): Serial killer. Talk about victims but mainly suggestive, nothing graphic. A ton of bad language about women and a brief fight scene.

_ Pilgrim’s Pizza, Soho, London: Present Day_

“Did Mark ever tell you about the whole fig tree thing?”

Aziraphale took a large bite from his pizza slice and chewed it slowly, dabbing flecks of roast chicken and caramelized onions from his lips with a clean napkin.

“Which? There are a few parables with fig trees I believe. I was there for the story about the barren one.”

Crowley shook his head, leaning an elbow on their small outdoor dining table.

“Not a huge Bible reader, me…not sure if the dead tree story is actually in there, but I know couple of the guys wrote it down. Basically, he woke up on the wrong side of the bedroll. Just, prickly as Hell. ”

Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow mid-chew and Crowley raised his beer bottle in surrender.

“Fine, prickly as something else then- The point is he wasn’t feeling well, headache and all. Not a trace of the usual savior attitude to him right then. Walking down from Bethany he sees this fig tree and gets excited. He was, as you like to say, peckish.”

Selecting another thick slice of pizza from the full pie he had ordered Aziraphale hummed to show he was listening. He had been dying to try this restaurant ever since it had opened only a few blocks from his shop. It had, thus far, exceeded his expectations.

He just wished Crowley would eat something.

“So, he run’s ahead to the tree but figs weren’t in season, not a fig to be found. He’s so livid he snaps at the tree "May no one ever eat fruit from you again!" and _boom_, the unfortunate thing withers up like an earthworm on a baked sidewalk.”

The Angel frowned as he felt an olive pop between his back teeth; the story was familiar. As often as he read the Bible he liked to revisit certain sections more than others; usually the parts he was present for.

That said, Aziraphale much preferred the gentler bits over the bloody descriptions of war and shows of holy wrath. Those always brought back bad memories.

Crowley continued on, face cracking into a smile as he did.

“So now the gentle Savior, meek and mild, has outright smote this innocent fruit tree because he was hungry and in a bad mood. So Peter says- “look! The fig tree you cursed has withered!” like he hasn’t done all that cause he’s just wanted a damn fig.”

The Demon paused to take a swig of his expensive micro-brew and broke out in a full grin. It was the kind of smile that made crow’s feet appear on either side of his sunglasses. Aziraphale had called them smile-lines once; Crowley had made it clear never to call them that again.

“To save face, he looked back at the whole lot of disciples, then looks piously up to the heavens-like he had planned the whole bloody thing-then he says…”

Crowley, still holding his beer bottle, made a great show of putting his hands together reverently.

“Truly I tell you, if anyone says to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and does not doubt in their heart but believes that what they say will happen, it will be done for them.”

At this Crowley broke into unruly laughter, his lips pulling back so far Aziraphale could see his sharp eyeteeth.

“He’s so grumpy about breakfast he wipes out a sapling just minding its own…then-hahaha-then he just goes with it like- oh yeah, I can make this mountain jump into the ocean if you just believe hard enough; just to shut them up! He just didn’t want to admit the whole thing was on him for losing his patience.”

The Demon was near wheezing as he finished his story and his laughter was so contagious Aziraphale found himself smiling as well, his cheeks warming as he blushed. Covering his mouth with a hand demurely, the Angel glanced around to see if any holy agents were spying on them; it was a hard habit to shake.

Crowley caught him mid-search, realized what he was looking for and immediately stopped laughing, clearing his throat with another sip of beer.

Aziraphale sighed wistfully.

“I remember so vividly, when he was a very little boy he would make clay birds and bring them to life to make other children laugh. He was just so, so…“

The Angel paused as he searched for the right word.

“Human?”

Crowley offered softly.

“Yes. He was very human. ”

Aziraphale agreed as he watched the foot traffic moving languidly up and down the streets of Soho. Crowley followed his gaze.

“That’s what I liked about him, the humanity.”

The two divine, human-shaped beings went temporarily still. A silence filled with individual recollections stretched between them, filling up the late September afternoon.

Signs of autumn were starting to steal over London. Aziraphale had seen tinges of red and yellow creeping into the foliage on their short walk to the restaurant. The trees seemed almost eager, ready for a few months of sleep as England was covered with a blanket of snow.

The Angel looked forward to the coziness of it.

Ever since mankind had developed grand concepts like “insulation” and “electric heat” winter wasn’t something to be feared anymore. Not like it was for the majority of mankind’s time on earth. Things had changed so much that the human’s of today didn’t remember the scarcity of the old winters. Not like he and Crowley did.

Aziraphale snuck a look across the table at Crowley.

He was staring into the sky, now filling up with grey storm clouds. He looked deep in thought, contemplative; his hair tugged by a passing breeze. It was cool enough that it made the Demon shiver slightly.

What would it be like to spend a winter with him; cozy, warm and away from the chill- _together?_

Crowley had stayed a snake for six whole days after Aziraphale brought him back from the Zoo. The Angel had taken the quiet, dazed Demon up to the apartment over his bookshop. After placing him on the duvet of his dusty, ill-used bed, Aziraphale had taken only a minute or so to go to his kitchen and make two mugs of fresh tea.

By the time he got back to the bedroom, the Serpent of Eden had curled up tightly in an oversized chest of drawers. It held odds and ends from his time on Earth; mostly bits of clothing given to him as gifts. 

Crowley slept, snugly, in the topmost drawer on a pile of handmade wool socks dating back the 3rd century. Stress seemed to have taken a deep toll and, secretly, the Angel wondered if this was the first time the Demon had allowed himself a _real_ sleep since the world had _almost-not-quite_ ended.

Several times he had wanted to wake Crowley. More than a few times he had stroked a gentle hand down the drowsy Serpent’s scales. Once in awhile the Angel would do some fretful pacing, check on the Demon then turn up the heat.

Aziraphale worried that Crowley might sleep for weeks, months, even _years_. The thought frightened the Angel but he was at least reassured that his friend was safely tucked away somewhere he could be guarded, kept safe as the East Gate of Eden.

Thankfully, Crowley woke up before Aziraphale was forced to break into his flat and make sure his plants were alright. The Demon had installed an automatic drip system several years back but claimed it just wasn’t the same as a good in-person misting; Aziraphale trusted his judgment in botanical matters.

Crowley had emerged from Aziraphale’s bedroom in jeans and an oversized, grey sweater and claimed he was hungry. This ultimately led to the outdoor table and the half-eaten Grecian Alfredo pizza the Demon had barely touched.

The Demon’s long nap had given Aziraphale plenty of time to mull over things. Including Crowley’s comment about how he had become “standoffish” after their return to relative normalcy. The Angel wanted to talk about it, discuss it over lunch but he couldn’t seem to find the right moment to bring it up; although he probably wasn’t trying as hard as he could have.

Crowley was doing his level best to keep conversation light as possible.

The Demon’s head hurt and, worse than this, his heart hurt; if a fallen angel could claim such a thing. The pizza smell made Crowley queasy. He knew he should at least _try _to eat a slice just to keep up appearances, but found he just couldn’t manage it; his stomach was too full of turbulence.

A few nice stories, some idle chatter and soon he would have to go home to his empty, echoing flat. Crowley didn’t want to go back there, but he also didn’t want to move somewhere else. He didn’t want to have no home base; he had tried that for awhile and found it uncomfortable and inconvenient.

Living out of the Bentley was a pain in the ass.

A Demon is a creature of desire, yet Crowley found himself strangely lacking in it. Nothing felt satisfying aside from the time spent in Aziraphale’s company but that wouldn’t last; it never did and that certainty left Crowley anxious.

For the first time in 6,000 years the Demon Crowley didn’t have any earthly idea what to do with himself or where to go next.

“Do you sometimes feel like the world has gotten smaller?”

Aziraphale, who looked as if he had been about to say something, shut his mouth and considered.

“I-suppose I’ve never thought about it.”

Crowley put a hand around his stomach and felt his fake smile drip away like runny plaster.

“Ah, never mind, Angel.”

“Crowley…”

The Demon managed another ersatz smile, wide and bright as he could muster.

“So, Angel, what are your plans until the next apocalypse?”

Aziraphale played with a bit of crust, nibbling at it to buy himself some time. The burst of basil and the tang of the pizza dough barely registered.

“The same I expect, the odd miracle, a good deed here or there; nothing too fancy. It will be nice to just do it for myself and not have to report in. Though, it means I’ll probably just help on a more local level than before…”

Crowley tipped his head back and finished his beer, sucking down the dregs before he set it gently back on the table.

“No need for The Arrangement anymore either.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, dropped his remaining crust and unconsciously began to wring his hands together just over his stomach.

“No. No, I suppose not.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest and leaned backwards until his chair creaked. His feet still ached a bit, but the short sleep had healed most of the damage.

“There was no reason for you to come get me in the Zoo. I can tell you now I don’t plan on doing anything worth thwarting for awhile.”

“I didn’t come to thwart you, you silly Serpent.”

The words “I was worried” couldn’t make it past the Angel’s clenched teeth.

The two beings went quiet again and, like so many times before, they found themselves at an impasse; an immovable object and an unstoppable force.

Crowley thought about the failed dessert experiment, the depressing lack of feedback when he tried to reach out. What had he expected? The Angel definitely showed concern for him, but that was his nature. That heavenly love for everything was baked into him from the start and it wasn’t going to grow or change.

The Demon had been throwing grand gestures Aziraphale’s direction for so long…why the fuck did he think a stopped apocalypse and a cake would finally get the point across? He was an Angel and Crowley was a Demon; _full stop_.

Space between them was for the best and no doubt it was what Aziraphale wanted.

Aziraphale thought about the Demon alone in the Zoo exhibit, in the sock drawer and on his sofa. He thought about him leaving and the prospect made his fear of Heaven look laughable by comparison.

But, this was his fault. Aziraphale had repeatedly reminded his counterpart of their roles and their stations. Why should he suddenly ask so much when he had done so little to earn it?

Crowley would want space but Aziraphale didn’t think he could stand separation; not after everything they had been through. Not now that they were free.

Crowley stood first.

“Well, I-“

“The Ritz!!”

The Demon tilted his head questioningly.

“The Ritz?”

Aziraphale nodded rather desperately.

“Tonight, for dinner? Will you come?”

Usually the answer would be an instantaneous yes, but Crowley kept thinking about what he had asked the Angel in the Reptile house.

_ What are we to each other? _

Aziraphale had never given a good answer and Crowley didn’t want to think about it anymore. Prolonging contact wasn’t going to change anything-but it was so hard to say no when the Angel was staring him right in the face.

“Alright, I’ll pick you up from the bookshop at 8:00?”

Aziraphale brightened, relief singing through his veins like a full Sunday choir.

“I’ll be waiting!”

Crowley stood by the table a moment more before he leaned down and blew a soft breath across the Angel’s side. The chocolate stain Aziraphale had completely forgotten about disappeared from his waistcoat in a puff of brown smoke.

“See you in a few hours then.”

As the Demon sauntered towards the sidewalk, he paused briefly and made eye contact with the woman at the table next to his and the Angels. She looked momentarily panicked, ducking her head down close to a half-eaten pizza slice on a plate in front of her.

Briefly, Crowley realized that she must have been eavesdropping. The guilty look on her face was proof of that and he was going say something but…then-

The Demon blinked hard behind his glasses. He glanced around confused, why had he stopped walking again? Crowley was pretty sure there had been someone he was irritated with-he couldn’t really remember what they looked like.

Shaking his head dazedly, the Demon shrugged and continued down the street with slumped shoulders, his eyes on his shoes. The plain, unremarkable woman he had meant to question grabbed her backpack and made a run for it in the opposite direction.

_ Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest, Washington, United States of America: 1977_

The sun pressed low to the tree-lined horizon. Its amber-orange light reflected bright on the calm surface of Lake Wenatchee. Fred Beksa watched it with cool detachment. Nature made him feel balanced; the open spaces were safe and familiar to him. He could be himself in the woods; the self most people didn’t get to see.

“God, how can I even describe it?”

The voice shook Fred from his serene study of the Washington wilderness. It was a jarring voice, annoying, and he glanced around to see who it belonged to. Fred scoured the large circle of young men and women surrounding the big, cheerful campfire at the edge of the lake. 

“I mean-the spaceships were like…whoaaaa-“

There. The voice belonged to some skinny asshole wearing an Alpha Kappa Lambda sweatshirt. The party was just getting going and he was already drunk off his ass.

Fred was a student at Washington State University, an Economic Sciences major with a focus on financial markets; a fascinating field in his opinion. It had been a long road to enrollment and he was older than the other freshmen by a good five years; yet another reason they just didn’t understand him they way they should.

Fred wasn’t part of the fraternity scene. He hadn’t rushed in the fall and he had no desire to share living space with other men. There was, however, one thing that he did want that frat members had near constant access to; sorority girls, or, as he called them, _does_.”

Fred had found out about the WSU camping trip while eavesdropping on the chunk-heads in front of him during a Psych 101 lecture. Does from all the major sorority houses would be going to Okanogan-Wenatchee National park for a long weekend.

Fred felt very confident that they wouldn’t notice an extra face in the crowd. He was good at blending in. He was a wisp of smoke in the air, a fallen leaf near an empty doorway. Being invisible was part of the thrill, part of the _hunt_.

“There’s this giant like…dog alien! And it makes this noise! It’s like…_ARRRRARARAR_.”

The asshole from Alpha Kappa Lambda spewed out some horrible animal noises that made all the beautiful does around him burst out laughing. It made Fred’s blood boil. They hardly reacted when he told jokes.

Does, like their namesake, were stupid, game animals.

A good hunter knew when it was time to cull the herd, cut out the weak. The weak in this case were the _whores_, the _sluts_. They deserved to be harvested.

Not only was it better for the world as a whole it was really the best thing for the does themselves. They would end up as miserable, used up old women without Fred’s help; ugly and dependent on social welfare. They would end up alone, bitter and unloved by their bastard children.

When he was younger Fred’s mother had told him about women like that. She called them “_loose_” and “_easy_” and told Fred over and over that they did nothing but make the world a twisted, malicious place. Many of the problems mankind faced started between the legs of _loose_ women.

A huge, muscular student wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt lit up a blunt and started to pass it around. Fred was sure he was on the football team, he certainly looked like it. No doubt all he had to do was give a doe a nonchalant side-eye and she would be all over him.

The football player addressed the skinny asshole, accepting a beer from a slender blonde doe at his arm.

“I haven’t seen it yet but I hear the princess is hot.”

Alpha Kappa Lambda coughed as he held in a lungful of smoke and passed the joint to the guy sitting next to him.

“She’s, like, _you know_. But aw, man there’s this sword fight and they have like LASER swords man. It’s off the hook!”

A brunette doe took a long drink of her beer and pointed towards the football player.

“There’s like, this weird bar scene with all these Muppets, it’s fucking bangin. You and Jay gotta go see it. We’ve already been like, three times.”

More conversations washed over Fred from all sides. The last bits of daylight were starting to dissipate, leaving the group of forty or more student’s with only the fire for light.

Fred glanced down at his own beer can and swirled the contents dejectedly. He was already on his forth can but it just wasn’t doing the job. He barely felt buzzed.

Fred felt irritated at the group around him for not bringing anything stronger. It was hard for him to get drunk on anything less than hard liquor. He debated asking the frat assholes to pass the joint over but decided against it. He needed to stay at least a little sharp if he was going hunting tonight.

Fred had started hunting when he was 22, four years ago; almost to the day.

He stalked his first doe for nearly three weeks; he had still been living with his mother in California then. She had been sick for awhile, so sick he spent most of his time taking care of her while working odd jobs on the side; she didn’t give him spending money.

Fred’s mother owned her house outright and lived well enough on the money her second husband had left her, but she never let Fred have any of it. She said she knew what filthy things Fred would spend it on and he never bothered to argue.

The first doe had been a student at Humboldt State University.

She was blonde; Fred liked blondes. She had huge blue eyes and long, long legs. She had a boyfriend but Fred knew she had to be sleeping around because he saw her talking to other male students.

At one point he watched her laughing and speaking with one of her male teachers. She was probably sleeping with him too.

By the end of the first week he knew her class schedule intimately. By the end of week two he knew what days she was most likely to study at the library. She liked rare hamburgers and the band Abba; he sometimes hunkered in the bushes and watched her sing-a-long to their records in her dorm room.

She also liked to go jogging early in the morning. That was when the hunt finally ended; he caught her on a foggy morning near a filthy culvert and a small thicket of trees.

The first time was harder than it should have been. He expected a struggle but she had been stronger than he thought. Doe’s weren’t supposed to be stronger than him; he was supposed to be the one in control. It made him angry and the work was easier after that.

He had dumped her in Arcata Bay on the way home to check on his Mother in Eureka. They still hadn’t found her body and that always gave Fred a jolt of pleasure. He was smarter than the cops, they would never _find _her.

Music filled the smoky air as someone brought out a pricey looking Boombox, a nice JVC RC-717. Fred couldn’t afford anything like that; he could barely afford his shitty little studio apartment.

The Boombox was set on some local radio station. Glen Campbell was singing about the good times to be found on Southern Nights and a few of the does had started to sway along drunkenly; sluts, all of them. Soon they would be dancing, and then begging the nearest buff frat burn-out for a quick screw in the bushes.

Fred felt his teeth set on edge but he tried to calm himself with a sip of lukewarm beer. He gagged and tossed it aside. He could wait, he could be patient.

After the first doe he had felt satisfied for awhile.

When nobody found her or came to interview him he started to feel like going out again. He had been careful not to be seen. Even if they did find her he had worn gloves and dumped her in water. They wouldn’t trace anything back to him and he was going to do even better the next time.

He found the second doe a month after his mother died. She had been blonde too, with a nice willowy, athletic build.

He had found her hitchhiking the 101 as he made the move up to Washington. It had been easy to get her in the car. She was wearing nothing but shorts, a tank-top and a backpack as she made her way up the Oregon Coast Highway. He had buried her and the backpack in the middle of Siuslaw National Forest. It hadn’t even added a day to his trip.

The second time he kept the does drivers license. Sometimes he liked to take it out and stare at it; it and all the others he had taken afterwards. They had come much, _much_ faster after the 101 hitchhiker.

He had six licenses in total. All of them tucked safely in a plastic bag under his mattress; hidden and waiting for him. He had yet to add one from a Washington State doe; that would change soon.

On the other side of the fire a dark-haired doe was laughing, sitting in the lap of a young man in a wool jacket. He was whispering to her and Fred scowled, turning his gaze elsewhere. So far no one had really spoken to him aside from simple acknowledgements.

There was no doubt in Fred’s mind that they recognized him, at least in passing. He had taken an on campus job as a janitor. He took it for the cash and for the access it gave him to all parts of the school. Some of the frat assholes had been civil so far, but most of the bitch does had flat out ignored him.

Fred let his eyes glide slowly over the selection.

There were a lot of couples and does in groups, little herds of loud gibbering idiots. Some of the students were still setting up tents, but most were now close to the warm fire; drinking and enjoying the atmosphere.

A thick looking Crawford Ran in a Washington State shirt fed the fire an armful of brambles, stoking it with a long burnt stick. As the flames licked at the kindling they danced up into the calm wind and in the flare of orange illumination Fred caught a flicker of light.

It was the light of a reflection in black plastic. 

A doe wearing stylish sunglasses was suddenly sitting across from Fred. He hadn’t noticed her before but she had apparently noticed him. She was staring right at him and when Fred caught her looking she offered him a seductive little smile.

It made something deep in Fred’s gut burn white-hot with anger.

Fred had decided to stay in Oregon for a bit after he left California. After wandering awhile he ended up with a temporary job at a cannery near Tillamook. He loved the area, there were huge areas of empty forest and plenty of rarely used wilderness trails.

He bagged two does while living there.

They had been traveling down to Berkley to start school together in the fall. He bought them lunch at a diner and promised to show them a gorgeous waterfall down a half-buried hiking trail.

Hunting two does at once time had been a real triumph; Fred had barely managed it.

One of the does, a redhead, had almost gotten away from him. While he was taking care of her friend, the smaller blonde, the redhead had wiggled out of the cloth ties around her wrists and ankles. She could run fast and she had almost ruined _everything_.

Fred held a special contempt for redheads after the incident.

The doe-slut currently staring him down behind those weird sunglasses was a redhead.

He could tell even in the dim, flickering light. Her long hair fell in curling, blood-colored ringlets around her long white neck. Fred decided immediately he would add her driver’s license to the collection under his mattress.

The doe reached behind the log she was sitting on and pulled two icy beers from a cooler hidden in the shadows. She approached Fred slowly, hips moving side to side with obvious intent. She had long legs, small breasts and a lean build that bordered on skinny.

Not really Fred’s type but there was something in the way she moved that hypnotized him. 

Reaching out a slender hand the doe offered him a cold beer. She peered down her pointed nose at him as the firelight danced in the lenses of her sunglasses.

Fred swallowed thickly and took the can from her.

“Hey sunshine, why the fuck, are you wearing sunglasses at night?”

The doe laughed and it was low and throaty.

“Sensitive eyes, may I sit?”

Moving over to make room on his log bench, Fred opened the fresh beer and took a long swallow. She sat gracefully next to him, sweeping curls of hair over her shoulder as she drank her own beer.

There was a tattoo on her temple of a winding, black snake. Fred found he couldn’t take his eyes off it, mesmerized by the way it curled over and over on top of itself. He wondered how well it would keep if he cut it off and took it with him.

The doe smiled at him, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.

“You looked lonely over here.”

“Nah, I’m just watching everyone. You know, chilling.”

The bitch had a British accent. Fred didn’t expect that and it sent a rush of excitement up his spine. Foreign game, who knew how long it would take for anyone to notice she was missing.

Crinkling up her nose again the slut giggled.

“You, wanna get outta here? Go somewhere more-“

The doe moved closer and Fred felt her hand subtly brush over his thigh.

“Private?”

Fred couldn’t help the giddy smile on his face. The slut was asking for it, just begging him to mount her head on his wall.

“Alright-“

She stood, slender hands patting the dirt from the back of her black bellbottoms. They were made out of strange, soft looking velour arranged in a scale-like pattern. Her top was long and made of black silk, held closed around her chest and mid-riff with nothing but a massive leather belt. It was difficult to see the silver buckle in the firelight, but Fred thought it looked a bit like a winged serpent.

Fred was no fashion expert but he thought, briefly, that her clothes looked expensive. More than the average college student would own, let alone wear to a camping trip. Not that it mattered; money didn’t matter when it came to choosing does.

The redhead sauntered around clusters of drunk, high college students. Fred had a harder time avoiding them, all his focus on his target. He could feel the adrenaline release pleasantly into his bloodstream.

He hadn’t brought his kit with him on the trip, too much risk involved, but he had used his bare hands before; a garrote was convenient but ultimately unnecessary. It would be nice to get back to basics with this sultry bitch.

The doe kept laughing as she stayed a few steps ahead of Fred; leading him farther and farther into the dark Washington woods. It was almost too good to be true. After a few more minutes of walking, the sounds of the party faded into nothing. They were replaced by the trilling of forest creatures and the crunch of undergrowth. The trees opened up into a clearing, illuminated startlingly bright by the moon and stars overhead.

Leaning against a rotting tree-stump, painted in shades of silver and black, the doe waited for him. She pulled at the collar of her open top, yanking the neckline away from the curve of one shoulder.

Her voice was a purr.

“Mmm, howdy.”

Fred sucked in a breath and circled her, looking at the doe from all sides. She would be so much more beautiful once he had throttled the life out of her.

A note of impatience entered the doe’s slick voice as she pulled impatiently at her shirt again.

“Come on then, I haven’t got all night big boy.”

That wasn’t the right away to talk to Fred. She was _disrespecting_ him. No doe was allowed to talk like _that_ to _him_. Rushing forward Fred put a rough hand on the doe’s wrist and wrapped his other arm around the small of her back.

She responded by pressing her lips to his and kissing him violently.

The force of the kiss took Fred by surprise and he wrenched away, his fantasy interrupted uncomfortably by the doe’s forward manner. That was _not_ how she was supposed to react.

She followed after his lips when he pulled away, grinning sardonically.

“What’s wrong Fred? What’re you afraid of?”

Fred tightened his grip on the slut’s wrist. How did she know his name? He was sure he hadn’t said it-had someone told her?

“Mmm, you know what Fred? there have always been men like you around; weak, impotent and obsessed with your sick, little power fantasies. America is just fucking _rife _with you this decade. It’s a damn epidemic and I don’t think Hell can take credit for it, much as they want to.”

Nothing the bitch was saying was making sense to Fred, and what was more off-putting was the fact she didn’t seem scared of how he was holding her. Growling low, Fred reached up with the hand around her back and grabbed a chunk of flame-red curls. He used it to yank her head backwards viciously.

“Shut up, shut-UP you stupid BITCH.”

She didn’t shut up. She laughed again and it sounded almost like a hiss. She spoke like she was amused, like the whole thing was hilarious.

“Ooo-scary, scary Fred. What would your mum think?”

That was it. Rage quickly replaced any sense of arousal or thrill Fred had felt just seconds before. Using his hold on the doe’s wrist and hair he threw her to the ground as hard as he could. There was a satisfying crack sound when her skull hit the tree-stump at her back.

The doe lay still for only a few seconds before pushing her face up out of the dirt. Blood dribbled from a wound on her forehead and the impact had knocked her sunglasses off.

Fred felt his insides grow very cold.

“Your eyes...what the fuck is wrong with your eyes!”

Wiping the blood from her cheek the doe gazed up at Fred sadistically. Her pupils were sharp slits, like a cats eyes, and they glowed intensely. They were like the eyes of a wild animal in the headlights of a car.

“I am so glad I stumbled across you Fred. I could smell the sin on you all the way from Canada-”

She pulled herself along the forest floor with her hands, belly pressed to the ground in an inhuman slither. Fred screeched.

“Bitch! back off!!”

The doe kept sliding smoothly forward.

“You know, every once in awhile I like to do something for myself... Heaven and Hell be damned-all side’s aside. You’re one of those things Fred, just a little pro-bono that nobody needs to know about.”

“Fuck THIS.”

Before Fred could even turn all the way around, before he even had the chance to plant his foot and start running, he felt something sharp sink into the skin of his ankle. It hit him right between the bottom of his blue-jeans and the top of his sock; there and gone in the blink of an eye.

It felt like something had _bitten _him.

The pain started almost instantly, a fire in Fred’s veins that traveled frantically up his leg and towards his groin. It scalded his nerve endings and sent his vision white as he fell to the ground, paralyzed by agony.

“Ah, you bitch…you BITCH…”

As Fred writhed in the dirt he could just see the doe stand in his flashing peripheral vision. She snickered, dusting the leaves and grass from her costly clothing.

“Don’t worry Fred, you’re not going to die. Unlike you killing people isn’t my thing.”

The burning, stinging, throbbing pain had moved up to Fred’s chest now branching out into his arms, hands and fingers. His muscles were spasming so hard he could hear the bones in his wrists and ankles groaning, on the verge of snapping from the severe strain.

Fred tried to find his voice to scream for help, the party was so close, but by now the heat was in his throat, burning his vocal chords. His screams faded into hoarse gasping.

The doe was brushing her hair outwards with her fingers.

“You will be a medical mystery Fred, darling. Doctors will be astounded! Never seen such a strange reaction to rattlesnake venom they’ll say. The Park Rangers will be baffled that a rattlesnake was living this close to the coast; so many unsolved questions.”

The burning was changing, transmuting into something else-something _cold_. It started in Fred toes, radiating around his ankle. The entire foot was deadweight in seconds, the cold snuffing out each nerve ending one by one.

Fred moaned in utter misery, the fear making every sensation too sharp, too vivid. He made one last effort to pull himself forwards and felt the doe’s foot come down hard between his shoulder blades.

“How’s it feel Fred? Feel good being helpless on the ground? You’re just getting a tiny taste of what Jennifer felt. Jennifer and Deb, Susan, Patty, Nancy, Dawn and Charlotte-”

There was a sound next to Fred’s ear. It sounded like someone shuffling playing cards. He managed to look towards the source and felt his eyes widen.

The doe was holding his collection of driver’s licenses between two manicured, black fingernails. She made sure he could see them, all of them. They were all there, even the one from the first doe whose license he hadn’t even stolen.

The cold had reached Fred’s chest, he couldn’t feel his body from the legs down and still it kept crawling upwards. He realized with new terror that he was being locked into his body. As the cold snapped the remaining connections between his brain and his arms the red-headed doe was tucking his trophies neatly into the inner pocket of his suede jacket.

“All the ducks in a row-just like that. At least the families will get a bit of closure, miraculously find the bodies. Won’t need you for that but I’m sure you’ll hear about it. You’ll hear about _everything_.”

The cold had completely swallowed the heat.

A pain remained but rather than a burn it was a deep and terrible ache. Fred couldn’t feel anything but that ache, the absence of anything else. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak- It was only by some miracle he was still able to breathe.

The doe squatted down near Fred’s face and slipped her glasses back over the golden glow of her eyes. Her teeth were sharp, the canines overlapping her lower lip like a snake’s fang.

“How we feeling Fred, everything good? We copacetic? It might take a minute to get used to but you’ve got the rest of your mortal existence so, you know no rush.”

Fred hated her. She had taken everything and he didn’t even understand how she had done it; this bitch, This _BITCH_.

The doe gave his frozen cheek a chummy slap.

“Stellar, glad we had this talk. Now, I gotta skitty but I’ll make sure somebody finds you in a few hours. You have a good, loooong life young buck.”

The doe stood, turned and Fred watched in tormented frustration as her black, leather boots vanished into the darkened woods. She waved once, calling out over her shoulder.

“See you in Hell!”

Then, Fred was alone.

_ Ascetic Aesthetic Antiques, Camden, London: Present Day_

The little bell over the door of the antiques shop gave a shrill ring, startling Jersey from a half-doze. Stretching his arms above his head, the Devil glanced down from the exposed ceiling rafter he was using as a perch. He watched Theckla lock the large shop door behind her, pulling the window blinds down for good measure.

Scuffling across a row of old carpets she made it to the massive oak desk she used as a checkout counter, setting down her backpack and pulling out the electric fan she carried everywhere.

Waving her hands around the silent room as if calling for quiet, the young woman put a hand to her chest, struggling to catch her breath.

“Yes, yes I’m fine. I’m fine. Everyone relax, just had a little scare.”

Jersey yawned wide and jumped down from his nap spot, landing on all fours on the counter next to Theckla. She screeched in surprise then calmed when she realized who it was.

“Jersey you scared me.”

The Jersey Devil had figured out a lot about Theckla Sallow since he had come to London. She could talk to old fans and TVs and things, she scared easy and she was a very nice person.

Theckla plugged in her electric fan friend and gave Jersey a warm pat on the back. He sat on the edge of her desk and watched her pace about nervously.

The Legend had taken up residence in Theckla’s antique shop ever since the plane and the meeting with the Angels. She lived in an apartment above and had invited him there but Jersey didn’t like how enclosed it felt. The antique shop had high ceilings with wooden supports that reminded him of the trees back home.

She said he could stay if he didn’t break anything. Well, she had said “anyone” but he had understood what she meant.

Pulling off her coat and hanging it up on a carved oak coat rack, Theckla tugged at her hair and said something to the china cabinet near her elbow. If Jersey didn’t interrupt she would patter around like this forever.

Jersey threw his legs over the side of the counter and felt his tail slip out of where it was hidden.

“How did spying go?”

Theckla paused, turned in a slow, harried circle and pushed her glasses up her nose.

“I-the Demon finally left the shop today. I listened in on the two of them having lunch. I-“

Biting her lower lip Theckla flopped unceremoniously into a beautiful Victorian chair embroidered with foxes and pheasants.

“The Demon chap doesn’t seem all that tough.”

Jersey inched closer reaching out his tail until the pointed end rested on Theckla’s shoulder. If she noticed she didn’t say anything about it.

“He’s just-not what I expected. Not particularly terrifying.”

There was a beat of quiet as The Devil mulled this over.

“Maybe he was pretending?”

“Maybe…”

Theckla agreed dazedly.

It took a good fifteen minutes surrounded by her safe, familiar shop before Theckla felt more like herself. The antique’s little flickers of encouragement washed over her, and Jersey, who had become a fixture in her life quicker then she wanted to admit, just sat quietly; a warm presence at her side.

With a deep, weary sigh Theckla pushed herself up out of her chair. Jersey pulled his tail back and put it away in the nowhere space with his wings.

“They’re going to dinner at the Ritz tonight. It’s the perfect opportunity and we shouldn’t waste it.”

Walking past a cluttered expanse old world knick-knacks and Edwardian furniture Theckla made her way to the very back of her shop. Opening a door hidden behind a taxidermy ibex Miss Sallow entered her workshop. She wasn’t the most skilled when it came to difficult restorations but she was no stranger to spit and polish.

The bejeweled reliquary box the Angels had given her and Jersey sat on her worktable, waiting to be opened.

Theckla addressed it tentatively.

“Uh, Miss Hertha? Are you awake?”

The Devil, who had followed Theckla into the workroom, held back. He watched the box curiously from the confines of his hood.

_Oh, back are you. Well can’t say I’m happy you’re here. _

Theckla sighed and scowled at Jersey.

“She’s awake. Open the box for me won’t you sweetie?”

Nodding, Jersey carefully reached out and opened the top of the ornate box, peering inside at the knife resting comfortably on its spotless cushion. Theckla, much to her annoyance couldn’t touch the knife or the box. If she touched it, even while wearing a glove, it felt like she was touching a hot stove. It left little red burns and scalded odd shapes into her skin.

The Angel’s had informed her, very smugly, that is what happened when one signed away their soul. The profane couldn’t handle a holy object but, fortunately, Jersey could despite not really being sacred or profane.

Theckla couldn’t touch but she could still converse and she found the relic of Saint Hertha was a not a very nice knife.

After a bit of research Theckla had found that the relic was actually a table knife carved from Saint Hertha’s left femur bone. She had, ironically, been a martyr who died from starvation-although Miss Sallow didn’t know the whole how and why of her death and the knife didn’t seem eager to share.

Gazing cautiously over the edge of the box Theckla spoke in her most polite voice.

“Um, Miss Hertha…we found out where the Demon will be eating tonight. Are you ready to help us?”

There was a sensation of impatience, the kind Theckla felt from elderly clientele unhappy with her customer service; A real “can I speak to your manager” sort of vibe.

_ Yes, I suppose we may as well get it over with so I can get back to Heaven._

Turning from the box Theckla rolled her eyes so only Jersey could see her doing it.

“She’s ready. They’re going to be there at eight so we should get there a bit early…I wish it wasn’t somewhere as classy as The Ritz but…”

Jersey reached up and squeezed Theckla’s shoulder. She still had no idea what he was, a Demon or-something else. But, he was a good kid; a weird eater and oddly quiet, but good. Oh-and the rafter thing…and the tail-

“You ready to do this?”

The Jersey Devil looked around the shop and finally nodded. He hoped that Hell would be like Theckla’s shop. He had decided that once everything was over he was going to ask if she could come to Hell too; even if it was just for a visit once in awhile.

“Yeah. M’ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in; Demon and Angel still don't have shit together after 6,000 years. Details at eleven.
> 
> History Notes for this Chapter:
> 
> The Story of Jesus on the Road to Bethany with the dead Fig tree is totally in the bible.  
I remember the Fig tree story made me laugh really hard because it was such a ...thing a person would actually do? Like if you had the power of god but your cranky and you just want a fig but all these dudes are following you around? I know, I know-parable but I prefer the more humanist take on these stories. 
> 
> The mention of younger jesus and the clay birds is from an apocryphal gospel.A gospel that has contested origins and isn't considered bible canon even if it is technically the correct age or possibly written by a canon author.
> 
> The 1970's in America was the age of serial killers. In part because police and FBI got better at catching them (Mindhunter on Netflix is all about this) but some theorize it was a side affect of the hippy free-love attitude of the 60's. My Serial killer Fred Beksa is based on a few different serial killer but mostly Ted Bundy, Gary Ridgway and Robert Hansen. Ted Bundy had a kill kit and his victims were often women in college/hitchhikers, Gary Ridgway found his victims in Oregon and Washington and Robert Hansen would "hunt" his victims in the Alaskan wilderness. 
> 
> The first Star Wars movie was released in 1977
> 
> 70's Slang (some of these are still common today but I'll just put all of them)-  
Off the Hook- Amazing, great.  
Bangin-REALLY great.  
Crawford Ran- A really buff muscular dude.  
Chilling-Hanging out.  
Copacetic- As in "are we copacetic?" are we ok? Is everything ok?  
Stellar- Everything is going well, its great.  
I Gotta Skitty- I gotta get out of here quick.


	5. Destiny Manifested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning- Mild historic racism, barfing

_ The Ritz, London, England: Present Day_

Saints are a funny bunch.

Most people think that Saints are canonized because they perform some amazing miracle or put forth some grand gesture of faith. It is generally assumed that a Saint is a good person; kind to the poor, giving of themselves, etc. That, to put it bluntly, is pure propaganda.  


Some Saints have earned their title by being political prisoners, while others have claimed to perform miracles that could never, rather conveniently, be disproven. Still others just happened to be Popes, which, might be the easiest way to become a Saint. There have been many, _many _Popes over the centuries and not all of them were holy, or even decent, people.

Take for example Pope Fabian who officially became a Saint sometime in the early 300’s AD. Fabian was a simple man, a cultivator by trade. He wasn’t ordained by the Catholic church, had never been a minister or a priest and by all accounts he was completely illiterate. He was just a guy who spent his days in the mud like any other peasant farmer. Doing all he could to survive and avoid any plagues currently troubling his corner of Italy.

In the year 236, Fabian, and pretty much everyone else, made a trip to Rome to see the election of a new Pope. When the, what we can assume, filthy Fabian wandered into the crowd waiting to see the ascension of the new Pope something purportedly miraculous happened.

A bird landed on Fabians head.

A dove to be exact.

Picture it if you will. A crowd of sweaty, grimy and possibly smallpox-ridden people all waiting impatiently to see who will become the new direct line to the All Mighty. Suddenly, a white dove flies down and lands in the crowd, choosing a seemingly random farmer as its perch.

Assuming the bird was a message, a visitation of the Holy Ghost, Fabian was immediately made Pope; Sainthood followed instantly.

Was Fabian a kind man? Was he good to his neighbors? Was he gentle with children and animals? Did he have rudimentary oratory skills or even a basic insight into the current political landscape of early medieval Europe? It’s impossible to know. Not much is known about his time at the job or if his lack of experience affected his performance. All we can assume is that the top of his head was very attractive to birds and/or deities.

If Saint Hertha Hannassat had known how little Saint Fabian did to get his title she would have laughed, then spit irately at the ground, in that exact order.

Hertha was born in what could kindly be called the _cusp_ of the middle ages. She lived in the dark, nameless time between the death of Christ and the start of the Medieval era. Hertha lived in a time of cautionary tales, ravenous wolves and famine. Her family served a Roman lord, a _Patron_, who let them work the land but took the lion’s share of everything produced; an early version of what would later be called the Feudal system.

Really this was just a fancy way of saying that Hertha and her family were slaves. Slaves that lived and worked in a kingdom called a Latifundium.

In that dark and distant time there was a most brutal famine. The people who survived it called it “_The Bone Chewing Time_” for reasons easy to guess. This gruesome famine started during a wet winter that sent rot deep into the ground and strangled the life out of more than half of the Patron Lord’s livestock.

Hertha could recall that cold well. It was cold enough to snap bones and freeze the liquid in eyes. One of the neighbor children had frozen solid taking a simple walk to the family latrine pit.

Hertha could vividly recall a great stag she had seen in the woods at the edge of the decimated grain fields. Icicles hung so heavy from his antlers that he couldn’t lift his head far from the ground. Part of his jaw had fallen from his soft face and revealed the blue, swollen lump of his tongue.

The winter lasted past spring solstice, the growing period cut short and stunted by the cold still stuck in the hard, thorny ground.

The Roman Lord asked for twice his usual tithe that year.

Hertha lost three nephews and nieces, two sisters, three brothers-in-law and countless aunts and uncles to starvation before she decided that she had, had enough. Another cold winter was coming, and the Patron Lord seemed insatiable.

She went to the Lord’s fine house, walked uninvited through his door and sat at his table. The provincial girl promised that for every day he did not lower his tithes she would fast and pray and never budge from her low wooden seat in his dining hall.

Despite her vulgar entrance the Lord had found her forward manner quite amusing. He had come from a larger world outside the Latifundium and there wasn’t much for entertainment out in the sticks where he was stationed. A homely peasant girl stomping into his house and making ridiculous demands as she sat near his fireplace was something of a spectacle and he was not one to turn down a welcome distraction from an otherwise dull post.

So, the Lord ordered his small court, which was really nothing more than his extended family and servants, to let her stay seated.

And the standoff began.

The Knife that was Hertha Hannassat, or, perhaps some a part of what she had been, did not remember how old her human body was when she sat down at the Patron Lord’s thick, timber table. The Knife that carried Hertha’s soul, or maybe just thought it did, remembered the Lord’s children eating spiced joints of wild rabbit at her elbow.

She could remember the Lord growing angry after the first week had passed and Hertha had neither eaten nor moved. After a week and a day, he had attempted to remove her physically. But, no matter how many men tried, they could not lift, push or budge her from her seat.

In the second week the Lord had howled in rage, accused Hertha of witchcraft, of possession. He decried her as inhuman, screeched when she wouldn’t move or answer his questions. Hertha had simply reminded him that she would not move until he lowered his tithes, once again he ignored the request.

After the third week the Knife recalled the pain of Hertha’s hunger disappearing. She remembered, vaguely, that even the pain in her hips and legs from staying in the same spot had dulled to a faint roar.

The people of the Patron Lords lands and beyond had learned of Hertha and the extraordinary way she could not be moved, the miracle of her being alive without eating. It made something spark in the community, a rumor that God was on their side.

Week four came and Hertha could barely sit upright.

The Lord begged her to go. He and his wife, his sons and even his mistress went down on their knees begging that she just leave the Lord’s house. They offered her bribes, food for her family. They offered her anything, anything but what she asked for.

Nearly thirty-five days had passed when the Lord finally gave up.

Shaking and pale he whispered hoarsely that the tithes would be lessened. Unfortunately for him It was too little, too late. Incited to revolt, an angry crowd of serfs were banging at his door, trapping him and his attendants behind closed doors. They killed the Lord’s guardsmen, his horses and his hunting dogs. In a matter of days, the Patron Lord and his entire family would follow. 

Hertha heard none of this.

Perhaps she was waiting for some permission to die. The Knife couldn’t recall the moment she had passed from the Earth on into God’s domain. She did know, with some certainty, that it was just after the tithes had been cut and her worldly job was done. 

Hertha Hannassat’s body had dropped dead to the floor of the Lord’s grand house. By miracle, or sheer force of will, she had remained sitting until the bitter stalemate ended. The grateful people of the Latifundium spread her story and Sainthood eventually followed.

Her emaciated body had been displayed for years in a church somewhere in the Germanic Lands. Parts of Hertha’s skeleton disappeared over the ages; A ribcage or a bit of spinal column migrating to different parishes to spread their blessings. Sometimes the odd pilgrim would steal a toe bone. Or, maybe a crusader on his way to the Holy Land would be gifted with a chunk of skull, a lock of hair.

By the time the first World War was erupting in what had once been Hertha’s homeland, her bones had turned to dust and her name lost to time. The only remaining fragment was the Knife that wasn’t sure of its own identity, buried in a cave near the grave of a priest without a tombstone.

Some Angel had retrieved her and her reliquary box, returning it to Heaven. There Hertha ended up in the quiet dignity of a well-lit, dust-free storeroom. There were other sacred relics there, none very chatty, but at least the Knife was among its own and expected to remain there for time immemorial.

What the Knife that was, and perhaps continued to be, Hertha Hannassat did _not _expect was for an Archangel to “check her out” of storage, take her to earth and leave her in the care of two incompetent children.

The C_reature_, the one wearing a human skin, a glamorie of some kind; was the only one who could hold Hertha in his “hand,” but he couldn’t hear her voice.

The _human girl_, if that is truly what she was, couldn’t touch Hertha but she could hear her as well as any Angel. This was doubly odd as Hertha was sure she and the human girl did not speak the same language.

Somehow, the two children had snuck through a large elaborate dining hall called “The Ritz” and back into the kitchens with the express purpose of using Hertha to poison a troublesome Demon.

The Angels had not asked Hertha if she wished to be part of this, or if she even wanted to leave the storeroom in the first place. She wouldn’t have minded, Hertha didn’t think that her past, or present, self would turn down the chance to do right in the world.

But a please would have been _nice_.

The Creature at least held Hertha with deference. He held her handle loosely, but not loose enough to let her fall to the floor. His hands weren’t sweaty, possibly because he could not sweat. Although she had not observed the Creature out of his human skin, she could just sense what he was under the surface.

He would not have been out of place in the wild woods of her childhood.

Hertha, being a knife, had no eyes or ears, but she could still “see” and “hear” to some degree around the front of her handle; how she wasn’t sure, nor really did she question it.

This could all be attributed to will of God and therefore not for her to question.

The Knife observed that The Creature was standing in a cold room, his breath coming in steamy puffs. They, the children, had called the cold room a_ freezer_. He was using it to hide.

Attention didn’t slide off the Creature in quite the same way as it did the human girl.

The girl was incredibly skillful at being unseen, to the point where the Knife suspected enchantment at work. Knowing this, the children had decided that the Creature would hide in the cold-the _freezer_ and wait for the girl to figure out which food was the Demon’s. And then-

The shiny freezer door pushed violently open.

The girl, dressed in a basic black outfit to blend in among the staff, rushed into the cold room looking flushed and pale. She spoke in a breathless whisper.

“Jersey! You ok in here?”

The Creature did not seem bothered by the chill. His palm was warm on Hertha’s hilt and she couldn’t feel a quiver in his grip. If he was indeed a thing that lurked in forest shadows this was not a surprise to the relic. Human’s might change but monsters rarely do. 

Nodding excitedly The Creature held out the Knife to show he still possessed it. The human girl nodded in return as her breathing started to calm.

“Ok, er, we have a bit of a problem, The Angel ordered a bunch of food, but the Demon didn’t order anything. I don’t-I don’t know if he eats? If he doesn’t eat, we can’t…”

Sighing internally Hertha interrupted as the girl prattled on frantically. Prattling was the only skill she had that matched her ability to remain unseen.

_Is the Demon drinking? I’ve heard stories of Demon’s being partial to alcohol. He will probably be drinking spirits of a sort yes?  
_

The girl stopped mid-babble and stared at the Knife as if she just remembered that Hertha was present and an integral part of the plan.

“I-Well, yeah. He’s drinking wine-They both are.”

_Attain the bottle they are drinking from. I will bless it along with all the food lain on their table. There is a chance he may partake of the same plate as the Angel._

Blinking stupidly the human girl nodded finally, her dull features blurring into fuzzy relief.

“Yeah, alright I’ll grab it. I’ll be right back. Jersey just stay here another minute alright?”

Offering another mute nod, The Creature watched the heavy door to the freezer close, his eyes glowing dimly in the sudden darkness. Hertha could feel him turn his attention on her and wondered if she still had skin, if she ever had it, would it have crawled under his will-O-wisp stare.

“I can’t hear you, but you don’t seem very nice.”

The Creature said simply.

“I think you should be nicer to Theckla.”

He added with a shrug and scratched at his hooded neck with sharp, discolored nails.

The Knife felt a huffy surge of annoyance.

The human girl was _Damned_. She saw no reason to coddle the Damned! She was a Saint, or at least part of one. She had been in Heaven! How could this Creature possibly question her kindness!?

Hertha was still fuming when the freezer door pushed open again and the human entered with a plate in one hand and a collection of half full wine bottles in the other.

“Ok quick, Miss Hertha will you please bless these?”

_ Damned fool, Why so many?_

“I know this plate is going to the Demon’s table, but I don’t know which bottle they were drinking from just-bless all of them please! We have to hurry before they notice this stuff is missing or the food gets cold.”

Hertha very much felt an impossible sigh leave her mouthless body. The Knife collected itself and thought only the most holy, humble thoughts.

Her reply didn’t come out any less exasperated.

_Very well, just as we practiced. Make sure the Creature allows just a small amount of food or drink to touch me as I perform each blessing._

Blessing the food was simpler than the wine. During the process the Knife found herself so distracted she almost stopped mid-prayer. She would never admit it, but Hertha dreamed of food frequently. She could almost remember the pillowy warmth of fresh bread, the sweetness of honey or the savory texture of good meat; almost.

It was a curse really.

She was chosen for this task by the Angels because she was a Saint of Sustenance, but she was also a Saint of Starvation. Prayers for fortitude in the face of a poor harvest or Prayers of appreciation for a good meal both still reached her on occasion on her heavenly storeroom shelf.

The plate of Ritz cooking passed under her as she poured light and godliness into every crumb. The Creature carefully dipped her deep into each wine bottle and she let sacred blessings soak into every drop.

At the end of it the Knife felt drained and for some inexplicable reason, disheartened.

_It’s done. Deliver it._

The human girl took the last blessed wine bottle into her hand and blinked at it in surprise.

“Huh, it doesn’t burn me. I thought holy objects burned me.”

_ I’m a Saint, not a Priest. I can’t make things Holy; I can only Sanctify them. _

“I don’t understand the difference. If it’s not holy how will this kill- “

_Damned idiot girl! The Demon would burn his lips on holy wine would he not? Smell it before he drank? Taste it before taking a sip? That would not work but purification of the base sins, that is a sly end. He won’t sense it. Purification In a man leads to holiness but in the corrupted it causes death! What is so hard to understand?”_

The Human took a surprised step back at the Hertha’s rush of loud irritation. Even though he could not hear her, the Creature glared down at the Knife as if her words had reached him. The bone handle seemed to vibrate in his hand.

Backing out of the freezer the girl bowed her head timidly, voice shaky.

“Oh S-Sorry Miss Hertha. Sorry I’ll-…make sure…I’ll go!”

The human girl left with a sucking rush of air and there was such a look of distress on her face Hertha couldn’t help but feel slightly remorseful; perhaps she had been a bit too brusque.

The Creature glared at her judgmentally from behind his human mask but said nothing.

Somehow that was worse than a spoken reprimand.

_ Low Texas Shrublands, United States of America: 1880_

The morning sky was the color of hot, watered-down beer.

Marshal Crixus Cooper watched the red sun rise and finished the day’s first cigarette.

Rubbing a hand up and down his stubbly jaw, Crix kicked a small wave of dust over the smoky remains of his campfire. After double checking his supplies and cinching his horse’s saddle tight the Marshal swung himself easily into the seat and considered the horizon, debating his next step.

The last few weeks had been a piss-poor waste of his time.

Harvey Sefton, the last of a rustling gang Crix had been tracking for over a month, had been dead and buried before he had ridden into his territory. The ranch Cooper had tracked Sefton to just a few days prior had shown a valid note of death signed by two witnesses and a cattle doctor.

The expiry certificate claimed Sefton had died of infection, clean and without being brought to justice. He had escaped the noose and left the Marshal in strange surroundings without a thing to show for his trouble.

Crix turned his horse in a slow circle, regarding the landscape and debating his options. He wasn’t acquainted with the terrain or the locals this close to Oklahoma. Marshal Cooper preferred to keep his hunting grounds closer to Mexico, roaming the Texas dry bush lands that bordered Chihuahua. Desperado’s running from trouble tended to migrate that direction on principle, more places to hide and less lawman on the other side of the Rio Grande.

Given his situation the Marshal had very few choices.

He could risk the weeklong ride to Lubbock or, he could take his chances in a small town he had never visited called Wrath City. The Marshal hadn’t heard one good thing about Wrath. It was a mining town and mining towns kept their own sort of law, usually at the mercy of the company paying everyone’s wages.

Cooper had traveled out by way of Fort Worth, avoiding Comanche land as much as he was able. He heard tales from travelers that Comanche would attack a lone rider as easily as a group. Crix was friendly with the Coahuiltecans and even lived a spell with the Carrizo, but he had never encountered a Comanche warrior and hoped he never would.

He was smack dab in the middle of their territory now, so the sooner he packed off the better. Jack, Cooper’s horse, snorted uneasily as the Marshal pulled his head around and came to a final decision over which course to take.

“Come on boy, we’re gonna chance it in Wrath.”

Lubbock, Crix decided, was too much of a gamble. Too much ground to cover, too many chances to encounter a roving war party. The Sheriff in Fort Worth had, regrettably, been _very_ forthcoming with stories of scalp-less, arrow filled bodies.

It was enough to make a man’s imagination conjure up too many ghoulish ideas for Cooper’s liking. Even if the old man had been full of shit, he had mentioned that there were more homesteaders surrounding Wrath. There was no good reason for the Sheriff to embellish that truth.

Crix was down to the bare bones of his rations and he found most ranchers amiable when it came to giving a lawman a bite to eat and a fresh canteen of water. Homesteaders who claimed their 160 acres were never warned about the isolation they would encounter. Most families, even woman left alone by traveling husbands, were more than amenable to the Marshal’s company.

The Marshal found it funny. People who had come west from Confederate states didn’t bat an eye when they saw him coming. Folks who would have jeered or turned up their noses in Louisiana would greet him like a friend, hungry for news of the larger world outside grazing country. 

Solitary life took the picky right out of them.

Humming under his breath, Crix watched a swathe of wispy clouds overhead and let Jack’s pace ease him into meditation. Long rides gave a man plenty of time to think and Crix Cooper was no stranger to pondering the big questions.

He liked to think on things like free will, fairness, the meaning of it all really.

The west could be a bad, lethal sort of place and sometimes he wondered if his occupation fell on the side of good or evil, government designation be damned.

Most times he didn’t have any trouble bringing a criminal in. There were callous, dirty folk everywhere after all. But not every man he shot was stealing from poor farmers or robbing banks blind.

Sometimes a felon would claim they were just trying to protect their family, feed their kids. Sometimes Crix believed em, sometimes not, but he took them in all the same.

On the other hand, sometimes, it seemed like the worst crooks went unpunished. When he had first come out to Texas, many years before his Marshal appointment in San Antonio, Crix had seen an honest to goodness bison herd.

Jack’s hooves kicked up a cloud of dust and it stirred a memory of the buffalo. Crix could picture their huge, powerful bodies, so numerous they seemed to cover the earth; they were beautiful. Marshal Cooper had never seen anything as beautiful as those blunt-nosed buffalo moving liquid across the plain.

They were all but gone now. Hunters shot them in droves, skinned them where they fell and left the meat to rot. Hides went for three dollars apiece; bones were good fertilizer. Some men shot them for fun from the windows of trains while others grew rich off their dwindling numbers.

It all felt like a crime against mother nature, but Crix didn’t work for her. No matter his opinion on the matter The Marshal couldn’t arrest a man in the bison trade. The rotting humps of a natural miracle turned the Texas air sweet with flies, but it was considered more good business then crime, out of his professional jurisdiction.

Things like that were what made Crixus Cooper really question the idea of justice.

As much as he liked it out here Crix knew that the west, that Texas, was a deadly place. You followed the rules, you lived as you could. Rustling, killing, or mining it was all about survival and all he could do was eke it out like the best of em.

Even if he didn’t always agree at least Cooper found the playing ground level; you could start fresh. That’s why the people came here from every corner of the world. They came from Norway, Ireland, even far off China looking to strike out and make a living. Here, in Texas, former slave Crix Cooper could be a certified agent of the United States Government.

A sudden muffled crack, a sound suspiciously like a distant gunshot, startled Crix forcefully from his own thoughts.

Jack spooked, reared, and nearly stumbling backwards on a divot in the dry earth as he twisted his head and let out a panicked nicker. The Marshal instantly reached for his gun, fingertips brushing his holster as he looked for the source of the noise.

He spotted it at once. There, in the yellow-gold distance, The Marshal could make out the dark specks of men on horseback.

The cool of the early morning was already starting to turn to a sweltering mid-day heat. Wavery lines of warmth rose from the flat, staked plains making the faraway figures appear, at first glance, a hazy mirage.

There was a mass of cattle nearby, scattered and still, but obviously traveling with the isolated horsemen. Cooper rested his fingertips on the butt of his gun, considering. He had no report of rustling in the area. There had been no formal complaint, no names registered for arrest.

Still, it was worth checking up on. If only to just check out why the gun was fired.

Making his mind up in an instant Cooper clicked his tongue and spurred Jack towards the cowboys and their far-off herd. He raised an arm to signal to them, calling loudly so his voice was heard.

There was no wind to carry his words and Crix hoped it wasn’t a misstep to get their attention. They didn’t run at the sight of him but, it probably wouldn’t be wise to make himself known on the outset, only offer his aid if applicable.

One of the men spotted him and raised his arm in return, cocking his elbow and offering what looked like a friendly wave. Kicking Jack to a full gallop Crix rode fit to burn the breeze, clearing the distance in a matter of minutes.

The Marshal slowed down as he approached the cattle, the last thing he wanted was a bunch of frightened beeves; Nothing would sour the strangers to him quicker than that. Pushing the brim of his hat up past his hairline Crix tried to smile as he regarded the eccentric group in front of him.

There were three cowboys, all mounted and looking at him warily. The flat land around them didn’t hold many trees but the lot of them were all gathered around one of the biggest Cooper had yet laid eyes on; it was leafless, dried up, and dead.

A rope was thrown over one of the tree’s thick, upper branches, secured tight to the strongest part of the twisted, old Ash.

At the opposite end of the rope was a noose, pulled taut around the neck of a bound man astride a very nervous mule. Somehow, Marshal Cooper had stumbled upon what looked like an impromptu execution.

Leaving his firearm at his side and his identification in his pocket Crix haphazardly scanned the filthy faces of the attending cowboy’s.

Usually he could pick out the biggest toad in the puddle, the leader, without much effort. There was a look about them, a confidence that was easy to pinpoint; also, he found they had the best teeth though he wasn’t sure if this was just a coincidence.

Clearing his throat Crix offered a man with new leather chaps his brightest smile. The cowboy was short but thick limbed. He looked young and cocky. His face clean-shaven and hair sheared short. The Marshal’s gut told him he was looking at the little posse’s boss and he trusted it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt you boys in the middle of something. Saw your beeves, we’re heading the same direction, thought we could travel together.”

There was a brief silence as the group digested this and the cowboy in the nice chaps finally cracked a greasy, straight-toothed smile. There was something about the smile that made Crix uneasy, something sorely familiar.

“Don’t see no problem having another helping us drive. You’re welcome to it soon as we get done with business here. The name’s Gus Sandford and these two are my cousins.”

The Marshal debated for only a second before he decided to use his own name. He wasn’t well known in this part of the state, there was only the slimmest likelihood the men would recognize it.

“Crix Cooper.”

The clean-shaven man didn’t reach for Cooper when he offered a friendly hand to shake. Either he didn’t want to touch a black man, or he was keeping his hands near his pistol; both were reasons to keep on guard.

Chances were he had given Crix a fake name, but that wasn’t unusual with men out on a drive. Aliases built up as fast as callouses out in the wilderness.

Keeping up his nonchalance as well as he could Crix turned to look at the man currently laced up pretty in his California collar. He struggled not to ogle him outright but there was just so much worth looking at.

For one he was spotless, sparkling clean.

There wasn’t a pinch of dust on his cream-colored coat or his nice tan trousers. His hands, tied tightly together near his plump midriff, looked baby soft; his nails were all trimmed even.

His hair looked white in the dappled tree-shade and his pinched, worried face lacked the chiseled, cut-from-stone look Cooper was used to. He was like some sort of fancy aristocrat, a visiting royal or pampered railroad magnate.

He was gagged but kept trying mutely to catch the Marshal’s eye, struggling to speak around the filthy bandana jammed between his lips. The clean man’s pleading, innocent blue-grey eyes made Crix itch to cut him loose; no way in hell he had earned a gallows’ dance.

Crix leaned back in the seat of his saddle, tipping his hat up nonchalantly.

“So, what’s he done to get roped up if I may ask?”

Sandford spit angrily at the dapper man’s palomino mule and nodded towards the small herd of cattle at his back.

“Caught the Barber’s Clerk trying to make off with the herd before sunrise. Didn’t make it far. We’re in our rights to bed him down.”

The man scratched his chin defensively and Crix kept up his best vacant grin. Look at me, it said, I’m harmless and don’t want any trouble.

“Seems odd of one man so…_thoroughbred, _would try to take half a head off the three of you.”

This earned a chuckle from one of the cattle hands at Sandford’s left shoulder, an older man in an oily derby hat.

“He looks like he’s got gold in his teeth, but the logy bastard tried to lead the beeves away with nothing but nice words and that stupid old mule. Mad as hornets, the both of em!”

The man in the derby pointed at the mule with a dark, semi-toothless smile and Crix regarded the animal in question.

He realized with a start why the gentleman was still alive. The cowboys had been striking the animals haunches raw, but it hadn’t budged from under the hanging tree. Blood trickled down from welts in the mule’s golden-honey hide and horseflies circled the open sores.

Despite this it stood steadfast in place, it’s staunch loyalty the only thing keeping the clean gentleman from a gasping, drawn out death. The gunshot Cooper had heard was probably a last-ditch attempt to scare the damned thing out from under the accused cattle rustler.

The Marshal whistled low.

“Well if that ain’t a thing! Got me curious that’s for sure. This clodhopper have any last words? I know I’d be curious what a fella looking like that has to say for himself.”

Crix felt an itch at his collar and found Sandford’s watery, bloodshot eyes were on him again, scrutinizing him with a vulture’s scavenger stare.

“Yeah?”

He said in a slow drawl.

“Yeah, might as well keep him alive till he can get a trial? Get him proper hung by a professional. Not that I don’t trust you boys to do the job, but you’ll be waiting around here all day if’n you don’t snap his neck right away.”

Sandford kept glowering and the other cowboys watched him silently, as if waiting for a signal. Crix cursed inwardly; he had overstepped. He was trying to buy the clean man some time, find out more about Sandford and the others- but it had backfired, and he could feel the tension growing fat around him.

“Pardon me Mr. Cooper but-your countenance brings to mind someone I known once.”

Sandford began slowly.

Crix felt his pulse pick up, heard it in his ears. He could see Sandford fiddling with his horse’s reins, fingers inching down towards his side. All ambient sound seemed to die on the air.

“Really? Can’t say the same I’m afraid. Can’t recall us ever meeting.”

_ But had he? _There was something about Sandford’s face. Something he was intimately familiar with. Where had he seen the man’s face before? -

Crix let his gaze fall on Sandford again, eyes sweeping up from his boots to his face; still partially obscured by shadow. The Marshal had been so distracted by the pale blonde man in the noose that he hadn’t put two and two together. Didn’t see what was right in front of him, the face he had seen a hundred times in a dozen wanted posters.

He realized his mistake in the exact same instant he realized why Sandford was freshly shaven, lunging for his shooter the same instant the outlaw did.

“Freeze Sefton! Hands in the air!”

Harvey Sefton was already two steps ahead, his gun aimed right between Crix Cooper’s eyes.

“Not on your life _boy_!”

He gave a wheezing laugh as he pulled the trigger and the Marshal grimaced, ready for the hard crack against his skull and the great beyond, beyond that.

Sefton’s trigger clicked, the hammer slammed home but… there was no shot, no bang-

No_ anything_.

Crix wasted no time questioning his good luck. He moved quickly, gun in hand he pulled the trigger and heard his shot. There was an instant scent of gun smoke. Jack and the other horses jumped in surprise but, thankfully, not one of them broke away or bucked.

Marshal Cooper didn’t stop to see where his first shot had landed. He caught Sefton slumped over in his saddle from the periphery of his vision and was already moving to aim at his two, ostensibly newly hired, accomplices.

Only-they were _also_ slumped in their saddles.

All three of the men were listing, dripping like jelly towards the ground, victims of gravity. With three almost simultaneous thuds, and accompanying clouds of dust, Harvey Sefton and his latest rustling gang fell to the dirt stone dead; three down with one shot.

Staring dumbfounded from the corpses to his gun Cooper shook his head, mouth hanging wide open. He remained that way until the clean gentleman’s mule began to bray loudly, garnering all the Marshal’s scattered attention.

By the time Crix was stuffing his pistol shakily back into its holster, Jack was already ambling towards the clean gentlemen at a fast clip. Cooper watched dazedly as his horse, who wasn’t usually friendly to strangers, nuzzled the mule and nibbled affably at its owner’s pantleg.

The Marshal shook his head in disbelief, leaning over Jack’s neck to pull the gag from the pale stranger’s mouth. The man coughed a few times, gasping and drawing in great lungsful of air. He didn’t greet Cooper at first his attention on his mount, his dark eyebrows pressed tightly together in earnest concern.

“Broteas! Broteas, my dear boy, are you alright? I’m so very sorry about that!”

Drawing his hunting knife from his belt Cooper reached over to cut the bindings from the man’s hands and the noose from around his neck.

Crix kept his silence, still dazed by the phenomenal act of God he had just been privy too. There was no other explanation but divine intervention. From the angle he sat and the direction he had shot? The only way that single bullet had taken out three men would require some help from supernatural sources: no doubt in the Marshal’s mind.

The mule gave a good, full body shake and made let out a healthy bray, ears flicking back and forth attentively. It sounded for all the world like he was answering his riders’ question.

The clean gentleman rubbed at his freed wrists and with an awkward amount of shuffling he managed to dismount, hitting the ground with a slight, off kilter stumble.

“Well I can’t really thank you enough Broteas and- “

The man turned his stormy-sky eyes towards Crix, his cherubic face crinkled in a worried smile.

“-And you Mr. Cooper, I’m afraid I can’t stay long but I really do owe you a good turn for this. You did come just in the nick of time.”

The Marshal opened his mouth to interject, to ask how the gentleman knew his name, but the man was prattling on like a player piano, a lot of dull music.

He had, unsurprisingly, a British accent. Chances were he was with an investment company, possibly a railroad racket. From the way he was talking to his mule It was a safe bet he had heat stroke. Although, heatstroke didn’t explain how he had gotten mixed up with the cattle or Harvey Sefton.

The gentleman was still talking.

“Dear, I hope I won’t be in too much trouble-It ended up that I had to intervene after all, but I couldn’t let them hurt you as well as Broteas. I tried to wiggle out, a discorporation is unpleasant but no worse than a reprimand, but, oh, I just couldn’t just leave Broteas with those scoundrel’s!”

At last, the gentleman, who didn’t seem to need to pause for breath, paused. After running his hands over his mount’s flanks, he began to fuss with his mule’s panniers. After a moment he withdrew several old, cracked leather books from the dust covered saddlebags.

Crix spoke up, careful to be polite in case the genteel man had truly cracked.

“Sir, how did you end up out here? Are those cattle yours? Did those men try to steal from you?”

“Oh! No, dear boy. I took the cattle from them. I had intended to return them to their original owners the Masterson’s, a lovely family that owns a ranch just a few miles from here. Now I trust you can do that for me! You just go back a fair distance due west; you can’t miss it. “

Dismounting Jack Cooper removed his hat and put a hand on his hip, completely baffled by the nonchalant way the gentleman was treating this entire situation.

He seemed to have already forgotten that he had been one sharp tug away from meeting his maker just five minutes before. Not even the lifeless bodies strewn about the ground fazed him, his fastidious exterior seemed to belay an inner strength.

“You were stealing back stolen cattle? “

Crix asked feebly.

The man in the pale cream suit nodded as he paged delicately through one of his books.

“Indeed. Those- “

He waved a soft hand in the general direction of the dead rustlers.

“-Men had tampered with the Masterson’s brands, adding some extra line to disguise the original.”

“Er, brand artists. We call em brand artists. The man, Sefton, he had done a fair bit of that in Oklahoma. I’ve been out hunting him for a while. I think he paid some people to throw me off.”

The gentleman hummed in agreement but didn’t look up from his book, absorbed by some secret there in the fine print.

“I had known you were about Mr. Cooper. Part of my, um, _job _was guiding you to him and his latest associates before a greater tragedy occurred elsewhere. Mr. Sefton had made some minor deal with a low-ranking Demon who was awaiting him in a small town called Dimmit, I believe.”

A cold chill went up Crix Cooper’s spine as he kneeled next to Sefton’s corpse. He stared at the clean man wide eyed as a hot breeze teased at his scalp.

“A…Demon?”

“Dearie me yes, unpleasant business. Not sure the whole nature of the deal or who the Demon is. Either way I was supposed to intervene with minimal contact, but things went a bit…pear-shaped.”

The pale man raised his head, squinting against a shaft of sharp sunlight that fell into his eyes. He shut the book in his hand gently and pushed it into a mailbag at his side that Crix hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m sorry- did you say he was making a deal with a _Demon_?”

The gentlemen didn’t seem to hear Crix. He fiddled with the buckle on his bag and stared wistfully out into the desert. When he finally did speak it was to himself.

“I should have just used a miracle sooner. But… I had almost hoped that a…a _friend_ would show up. He has a talent for knowing just the right time to…”

The man trailed off, sighed and smoothed his lapels as the Marshal got to his feet. Cooper couldn’t help but feel concerned. The pale man gave off such a kindly aura and somehow, he had saved Crix’s life.

“Sir, Mr.- “

“Oh! Dear me, Aziraphale. I apologize Mr. Cooper but I really must be going. If I report in and explain what had happened perhaps, well, perhaps they won’t be so cross that I had to use the odd miracle to complete the task they set. Really with so much danger in the world how does management expect one to accomplish miracles without miracles at one’s disposal!”

Crix Cooper followed the much shorter man,_ Aziraphale no last name_, out of the dim shade of the hanging tree. He had no idea where Aziraphale thought he was going, or if he was insane, but he decided to keep treading prudently.

“Don’t you need to take your mule?”

Without a hint of trepidation Aziraphale took Crix’s hand into his. He held the Marshal’s rough-skinned hand in his cool, soft fingers and pat his scarred knuckles affectionately. Despite himself the Marshal felt a clean calm fill his body like cold glass of fresh water.

“Take Broteas to the Masterson’s for me. He has a tendency towards stubbornness but he’s loyal soul. I know they’ll take good care of him. I know I’ve already asked a lot of you but I promise-”

Aziraphale leaned in conspiratorially and his eyes twinkled like a starry, diamond sky.

“You and Jack shall be blessed in your adventures for quite the foreseeable future.”

Giving Cooper’s hand a companionable squeeze Aziraphale broke away and started walking smartly out into the desert.

The kind gesture was such a shock that Crix could only stare after Aziraphale dumbly until Broteas bellowed and startled him back to sentience. Crix jolted, turning for a moment, afraid maybe one of the Sefton gang had gotten back up to point a gun at his head.

This wasn’t the case; the damn mule had just been calling after Aziraphale.

Marshal Cooper paused; his eyes drawn to a newly healed patch of hide on the mule’s backside; the wound that had been there was gone along with the flies; There wasn’t even a trace of blood left.

When Crix turned back to call out to Aziraphale he was only mildly surprised to find nothing but sprawling emptiness and endless sky. Not a sign of the pale British man in his spotless cream suit and worn waistcoat; another damn miracle.

The American west was harsh, tough. Not a place for someone like Aziraphale. A bad place, Marshal Crixus Cooper thought as he slipped his hat back on, for Angels.

_ The Ritz, London, England: Present Day_

Aziraphale sniffed and sipped at his wine with a practiced air of put-outness. He was quite good at it and had taken some millennia to perfect the art. With Crowley he always had ample opportunities to practice.

“You can’t possibly sit there and tell me you dislike working with _all_ authors? I thought Demon’s loved to tempt artists and the like.”

Crowley sneered, wrinkling his nose until his sunglasses crawled up his forehead.

“I enjoy _tempting_ ‘em Angel, but it’s never fun _working _with them. Working and tempting are two different things with creative types.”

The Angel contemplated his soup an egregious amount of time before conceding a tiny shrug.

“When you say work, what I assume you mean to say is _inspire_?”

“What else would I mean. It’s unspoken by Up or Down, but inspiration of the art types is somehow an integral part of our relative positions yes? It’s in our purview.”

Aziraphale nodded and the nod was much more forceful then the pale shrug. For some reason muse-dom had always gone hand in hand with being a creature of Divine origins. Even Demons and Angels who were not stationed on earth often got into such relationships with artists of all stripes because it felt…necessary.

In fact, being an inspiration to a mortal possessing creative gifts didn’t even necessarily have to involve an agreement, blessing or curse. Heaven had once commissioned a study on the phenomenon and, like most of their studies, had simply determined it to be Her _Will_ and left it at that.

Crowley and Aziraphale, after a long drunken debate in the 1500’s, agreed that it was probably because art, in all its forms, elicited a reaction from people. It compelled them to respond and that response could be beneficial to either Heaven or Hell depending on the muse.

Demon’s become the voluntarily muses for Heavy Metal music and Gothic architecture? Hell benefits. Angel’s inspire a bevy of Renaissance paintings and tacky cross-stitch patterns? Heaven reaps the rewards.

Aziraphale jabbed his spoon towards Crowley.

“Surely, you can think of _one_ author who you inspired to greatness and actually liked?”

Leaning so far back into his chair that he looked at risk of toppling over Crowley made a real effort to consider the question. He jiggled his leg up and down and tried, with his usual difficulty, to sort through the vast archive that was his memory.

There were just so many humans, so many people he had known. Some he wished to disregard for their vileness, others, he just wanted to forget because he missed them; their lives were so wretchedly brief.

“Theodore Geisel.”

The Demon said finally.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall the gentleman…”

Aziraphale racked his brain. He considered himself quite knowledgeable when it came to humans who wrote books, with good reason. The Angel watched his friend’s mouth curl into a tidy smirk.

“He had a pen name. Most knew ‘em as Dr. Seuss.”

Aziraphale still didn’t recognize the name right away. He dithered, stalling for time by taking a bite of the cheese soup entrée the waiter had just delivered. It struck him all at once why he couldn’t place the name. He had been focused on classical authors, authors who catered to adults.

“Wait, wasn’t he a children’s book author?”

Clicking his tongue disapprovingly Crowley folded his arms over his chest.

“Just because kids read his books doesn’t mean he wrote them just for kids.”

Aziraphale smacked his lips, momentarily distracted by his soup.

“I would agree if we were discussing Lewis or Kipling but Seuss?”

The cheese soup was-well, Aziraphale didn’t have as much of a flair for the dramatic as Crowley but, it was positively _heavenly_. It tasted as if it had some secret leg up over all the other dairy based soups the Angel had sampled in his long and storied life.

Crowley scratched his cheek under his glasses with his usual frantic energy and made a low noise of utter disappointment.

“Seuss was a better writer than Lewis or Kipling, sometimes less words is more words Angel. Geisel wrote about hard things like nuclear war, commercialism-the existence of free will! And he did it all while rhyming! Love to see Lewis do that.”

Still marveling at the quality of his cheese soup Aziraphale sat up a bit straighter and cleared his throat Crowley’s direction before he began to recite a C.S. Lewis poem from memory.

“Jove sighed. The hoving tide of ocean trembled at the motion of his breath. The sigh turned into white, eternal, radiant Aphrodite unafraid of death-”

Crowley leaned on one hand, unimpressed.

“Soppy. Just like the old suck-up to write a bunch of flowery bloat.”

Aziraphale made a spluttering sound around his latest mouthful of soup but didn’t have a chance to defend the poem he had practically helped write before Crowley cleared his throat theatrically and raised an arm into the air like a Shakespearean thespian.

“It’s high time you were shown that you really don’t know, all there is to be known.”

Looking over his glasses for a reaction Crowley grinned wide.

“No? How about- I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind. But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see. Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!”

The little fire that lived under Aziraphale’s heart and only seemed to come to life when Crowley was around blazed hot as the Demon quoted Seuss. The simplistic words did indeed seem to hold something of the man-shaped being in them. Something rebellious but gentle and encouraging. A strange combination that only Crowley had managed to master.

The Angel kept a straight face and pursed his lips.

“Rhyme schemes aren’t very_ complex_, are they?

Crowley scowled and sipped at his wine moodily.

“Complexity?! Who the hell cares about complexity! Sometimes you have to cut to the point and really feel something like…”

The Demon looked at his hands and didn’t speak for so long Aziraphale thought he wasn’t going to finish his thought. Crowley finally huffed a short breath through his nostrils and looked hard at Aziraphale from behind his sunglasses.

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And _you_ are the one who'll decide where to go...”

The strange bit of naïve poetry hung heavy in the air between the entities. In the following quiet Aziraphale tapped his spoon on the bottom of his soup bowl; he had barely noticed it was empty.

The desire for choice, for free will. They had both always had it, hadn’t they? The Arrangement had really been made in the spirit of rebellion disguised as convenience. Now the two of them didn’t have to commit little insurrections anymore to steer themselves in their own directions.

They could just decide for themselves. They could _want_ things.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley and he _wanted._

The Demon played absently with a clean soup spoon and the Angel watched him, wondering if now was the time to propose what he truly wanted.

After a beat he opened his mouth with a grim determination. He would ask Crowley to stay with him, perhaps they could come to some sort of lodging arrangement that meant he didn’t have to travel between Soho and Mayfair. Yes, practically they were both on guard from their respective sides so being flat mates for safety sake was just practical.

He had to do it now. Aziraphale couldn’t face the rising despair at the thought of parting from Crowley after dinner.

Just as the first, brave syllable was past the Angel’s lips an impeccably dressed waiter was at his elbow with the main course, completely derailing his train of thought. The Angel shut his mouth with an audible snap, completely losing his nerve.

He gave their server a forced smile as they set his plate of the Ritz’s infamous beef wellington with celeriac and Périgord truffle; It smelled immaculate.

The waiter spoke politely but Crowley could feel the waves of irritation emanating from him. He was frustrated with something his manager had said earlier. One little push, one whispered word and the young man would quit this job in a huff. From there who knows what kind of sin he could fall into; he was certainly lucky Crowley was retired.

“Would you gentlemen care for a refill of the Château Les Bertrand’s? Or, would you care for another vintage?”

Aziraphale looked to Crowley for affirmation. The Demon regarded his empty glass and rolled his shoulders, speaking to the waiter like the effort bored him.

“More of the same then.”

“Please.”

The Angel added courteously.

Crowley gazed out across the room and felt a familiar, weary melancholy steal over him. The couple a few tables away were whispering sweet nothings. The Demon knew that one sultry wink from the right woman…or man, and the husband would cheat without hesitation.

An elderly woman eating alone in a far corner of the dining room already belonged to Hell. She had a tarnish on her soul that looked like it had accumulated from years of mistreatment. Crowley briefly wondered about her sin of choice. Vanity? She was dressed extravagantly. No, it had to be something worse, something money related; with humans it all seemed to go back to that.

All the sin in the air was usually background noise that Crowley had no difficulty blocking out. Lately, something in him seemed too tired to mute the sounds of desire that lingered in the air all around him. He felt no need to entice people but, the fact there was so many so_ ready_ to be swayed made him endlessly exhausted.

The only thing that didn’t make him feel tired was-

“Oh, my _goodness_!”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow in Aziraphale’s direction. The Angel’s plump cheeks were dusted with pink and his halo was practically glowing from its pocket of the ether. Moaning inappropriately, especially for someone of his station, Aziraphale gathered an assortment of food on his fork and held it out to Crowley jubilantly.

“I know you don’t partake my dear but-you _simply _must taste this! I don’t think I’ve ever tasted meat so well cooked. There’s some flavor there-I can’t place it!”

Staring at the offering Crowley couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. It didn’t look appetizing to him.

Although he didn’t indulge as much as Aziraphale, Crowley did enjoy a nibble here or there. Usually he preferred things he could devour whole or swallow without much chewing, but he had other favorites.

One of his secret pleasure’s was cookies crushed to near powder in a Ziploc bag. He liked to lounge in his flat, tongue flicking in and out of a partially open bag, watching the sitcom of the day with his lips coated in sugary crumbs. Truly a horrifically sinful activity.

The mess on the end of the Angel’s fork smelled…off, as well. Something in the carefully spiced concoction didn’t feel right to the demon. It was like there was some ingredient that had gone off and only he had noticed. But- the look on Aziraphale’s face was so sincere. He didn’t often force Crowley to taste what he was eating unless he found it exceptional.

One bite wouldn’t hurt.

Everything after the main course was served was a blur to the Demon.

The food Aziraphale gave him tasted like…well, it tasted like something Crowley couldn’t remember. It was like something that had tasted very good when he was younger, but he had lost fondness for as he aged. That same taste had somehow lingered on his tongue long enough to affect the flavor of his wine. He had only managed another glass and a half before he started to feel _off_.

Any grand ideas he had of serious talks about the future with Aziraphale suddenly seemed best left to another day. All the Demon wanted to do was go home and sleep for a while, maybe a week, maybe longer.

The Angel seemed oblivious to all of it. He continued to rave about the night’s meal down to his last bite of crêpes suzette. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked Crowley to take another bite.

After paying for the meal and leaving a tip so large it could probably be considered indecent Crowley offered to take Aziraphale home.

In the Bentley, the Demon felt a bit better and when the Angel asked him in for a nightcap, he couldn’t find it in him to refuse. He didn’t really like to refuse Aziraphale anything.

The Angel exited the Bentley and stepped out into the street. For some reason Crowley had difficulty procuring his usual parking space right out front, but they were only a half a block away, barely a walk.

Chattering happily Aziraphale waited as Crowley locked his car and circled round to join his friend on the sidewalk.

“You know tonight I thought we could end with a sweeter wine-a dessert wine. For some reason I find myself in the mood for one!”

Crowley tried to answer, gave into a closed-mouth belch and hiccupped quietly. Something foul was building in his throat and he curled his lip at the unpleasant flavor. The Demon trailed after Aziraphale slowly and had barely made it three steps before he had to stop.

Crowley swayed, his knees felt very warm and wobbly. He glanced down at them in confusion. He had barely had anything to drink with at dinner. He and the Angel shared far more than two bottles between them on a regular basis.

Reaching out a shaky hand the Demon searched for something solid to lean on. His hand glanced off the edge of a nearby car bumper and left him untethered, falling towards the pavement.

The painful, unfamiliar feeling in the Demon’s gut grew tenfold as he hit the ground with an undignified thump. His stomach jostled inside him and in an instant something scalding hot was rushing up his throat and spurting violently out his mouth and nostrils. In between one wave of nausea and the next it occurred to Crowley that he was vomiting.

He could count the number of times this had happened to him on one hand and it had never been this vicious, this out of his control. Usually when he felt the urge to be sick all Crowley had to do was clear his system of alcohol or miracle his hangover away. His first ocean-wide trip on a sailing ship had caused a spot of seasickness, but even that could not compare to the pain he currently felt in his guts.

Struggling onto his hands and knees Crowley brought up the small amount of food he’d eaten and what seemed like an endless amount of wine. Watery streams of purplish-red liquid flowed over the edge of the pavement and down into a nearby gutter; it left cursed black stains all over the concrete; only a power wash with holy water would ever have a chance at removing them.

The air felt very cold.

Rubbing a sleeve roughly over his mouth Crowley gagged on the foul smell of sick in his nose, flinching when he sensed Aziraphale’s familiar presence at his back.

“Crowley?”

The Demon felt a bitter chill move over his entire body, ice in his veins. It reached deeper, past the surface level, sending an ache through his corporation and on into his core. He retched again and again until he wanted to screech at his body to just stop, there was nothing left to bring up; he was empty.

Aziraphale stared at the Demon kneeling on the ground a full five seconds before what was happening sank all the way in. His body was moving almost before his brain caught up with it, his hand settling between the demon’s sharp shoulder blades.

“Crowley, Crowley-dear boy, are you alright?”

The Angel had never heard his friend make such awful sounds before; wet, gasping heaves. It reminded Aziraphale uncomfortably the first death he had seen after Eve’s Apple mishap. Animals had never killed one another in the garden, but outside Eden’s walls the Angel had witnessed a Lion crush an antelope’s windpipe in its jaws; its first taste of fresh, red meat.

Crowley was making noises very similar to that long-forgotten antelope.

Shaking his head wordlessly, the Demon struggled to find his feet. He managed to get the sole of one boot pressed solidly to the sidewalk when the first tremor coursed through him. Aziraphale felt it, a shiver so ferocious it made Crowley’s head snap backwards.

“Angel…I…”

The Demon’s body stiffened as if he was suddenly overcome with rigor mortis and Aziraphale pulled his hands away in surprise as his friend began to spasm. Crowley’s arms went plank straight at his sides as his back arched.

Aziraphale pulled his hands back to his chest unsure what to do as the Demon convulsed. His limbs and head jerking spasmodically on the ground and It looked, ironically, like Crowley was being possessed. This was out of the question but the alternative seemed even less likely. It was impossible but, Aziraphale was seeing it with his own eyes.

Crowley was having a seizure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know where to start on the research for this one. There was just so much of it. 
> 
> The story of Pope Fabian is true, but the story of Hertha is all me. I based her on a various Saints and the time period when she lived. Famine was common, and winters were hard.  
Crixus Cooper is based on Bass Reeves who is familiar now to those who saw the HBO Watchman show. Bass Reeves was a black man who had started life as a slave and ended up being, arguably, the best U.S. Marshal in history. The Lone Ranger is partially based on him. He's amazing look him up.  
The name Crixus is taken from a Roman slave/historical gladiator who helped lead a slave revolt. If you watch or read anything about Spartacus, he was part of that whole scene. I thought it would be fitting.  
Mules have important religious significance through history and are very present in the bible. In ancient times they were revered by royalty and considered to be more valuable then horses. I figure because of this Aziraphale would be partial to mules and prefer them over horses. Broteas is a very ancient Greek prince who died in a battle with centaurs. I thought this would be kind of a cute joke, especially if Aziraphale named him. Broteas is a palomino mule so he’s very golden and heavenly in coloration. 
> 
> Dr. Suess did some really dickish things in his life but damn if he isn't an important writer. Thus, Crowley.
> 
> There is so much cowboy slang its mind boggling. Some of it we still use today.  
Cowboy vocab:  
Dull Music- Useless Talking, prattling  
Clodhopper-rube, idiot, someone unfamiliar with living outside a city.  
Gold in his Teeth- Rich, fancy person with money  
Bed him Down- Kill him  
Barber’s Clerk- A super fancy pants. A dandy.  
Gallows’ Dance- Hanging  
Burn the Breeze- Ride really fast  
Beeves- Cattle  
Biggest Toad in the Puddle- The boss of the outfit. The man in charge.  
California Collar- A noose.


	6. Swifter Than Leopards, Fiercer Than Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: a split second of rather graphic animal injury.

_ Somewhere In-Between: Present day_

If there is one huge, insurmountable difference between humanity and the inhabitants of Up and Down, it is the concept of time. One might think that Angels and Demons have time on their side being they, quite literally, have all the time in the world.

This idea, that having a large quantity of time makes celestial and occult beings more friendly to the whole notion is, quite frankly, nonsense. Most ethereal creatures, from both Above and Below, generally regard time one of two ways. They find it either frustrating, or frightening.

Human’s fear death because death, to them, is an end of time. A human’s awareness of time is markedly different than an immortal creature; mostly because they have never lived without it. Because of human’s acclimation to time and their knowledge of its finality, they live quick and process change even quicker.

Say, for example, you are a Demon.

No one special, just a run of the mill stone-grinder who prods the covetous with hot pokers for a living. At some point your superior gives you a job up on earth, let’s say a temptation.

You pop up to accomplish your temptation and find the world a generally mucky and humid place. When you make the scene, the human population is barely past the four hundred million mark. Depending on where you are, you’ll find most cultures have no concept of written language yet.

For the sake of this example we’ll say you, the Demon, isn’t in some more advanced place like the great empire of the early Mayan’s or early imperial China. You’ll just be nipping in and out of a muddy bit of land held by the Eastern Slavs. It will be a long time before the people there become Belarusian, Russian or Ukrainian.  


You, the hypothetical Demon, are tempting one of the Dregovichi, an ancient tribe whose name is literally derived from the word for “swamp.” The most impressive thing the Dregovichi ever had to show for themselves was a bit of iron, some metal beads and the odd belt buckle.

After you, the Demon, take in the local color, which is mostly brown, you do the dirty deed and go back downstairs. Soon you’re back at another satisfying shift spent prodding avaricious man-flesh. 

Time passes.

Now you, the same Demon, still been banging away at the same job, are given another quick temptation in the same area as the first.

Oh! You may think, this will be a breeze. You were just up there, know the land well enough and the Dregovichi aren’t even that large of a tribe. A quick up and down and you’ll be back in time for a long overdue five-minute break.

Only, that rascal time has been at it again.

Time has passed but you haven’t really noticed. A Demon working in Hell usually has a singular job and that job doesn’t change. Demon’s on a whole don’t change and Hell only changes in glacial increments. Most of these changes aren’t even something a simple torturer on the ground floor is going to notice.

Ah, but the Dregovichi have changed.

No, correct that, the Dregovichi don’t even _exist _anymore. The tribes are all gone, replaced by militaristic kingdoms that have been replaced with a communist regime. The Dregovichi’s ancestral homelands have become a country with firm borders and their own official flag.

So here you are, the simple working-class Demon, emerging in the same empty field you came out of the first time; only now that field is _paved_.

The primal forests have been tamed, the animals domesticated and there is electricity _everywhere. _The clothing is made of synthetic fibers and there isn’t a single pelt to be seen. All the humans are somehow taller and not one of them looks gaunt from hunger or debilitated by hard labor and constant tribal warfare.

_ What the Heaven happened?_

You, as the Demon in this scenario, say to yourself. And, of course, there is only one good answer.

_ Time._

Time has happened and continues to happen at a constant click. Empires rise and fall; inventions are made, improved and mass produced. Children age, go on to have their own children and die. All that happens while most immortals do one straightforward job with single-minded determination.

Both Angels and Demons share a healthy fear of time, a frustration of its effect on the world and, by extension, their professions. Outside of the safe, familiar confines of Heaven and Hell everything just moves too fast for them.

Time, it is universally agreed, is one of God’s worst creations.

There are, however, two immortals who have _accepted_ time. One Angel and one Demon have embraced change enough to adapt to it as it happens.

They do so in different ways and let it affect their lifestyle in different interims. After a few thousand years both Crowley and Aziraphale grew as man-shaped beings. They watched the stream of time flow past them and eventually chose to merge with it rather than paddling frantically against the current like the rest of their kind.

This curious behavior sets them apart in many respects. Perhaps the most interesting is how acceptance had caused a significant change not even the two of them were aware of.

All Angels and their Fallen counterparts have a true form under all the layers of metaphor and corporation. Aziraphale and Crowley, however, are the _only_ immortals to have a true form that has _changed over time._

From the moment he was created the Archangel Gabriel was always a massive golden wheel set ablaze with holy fire, covered with hundreds of wings and littered with all-seeing eyes.

After their Fall, the Demon Beelzebub became a flayed, headless body hung upside-down from a pronged spike and blanketed with black flies: A dark reflection of whatever they had been as an Angel. Neither Gabriel or Beelzebub’s true forms would change after their birth, or subsequent Fall in the Prince’s case.

The same could not be said for Aziraphale and Crowley.

Unbeknownst to him Crowley’s true shape had gone through a constant, steady stream of changes for millennia. He hadn’t felt it outwardly and really, there weren’t that many opportunities to shed a corporation. Finding the time to get a good look at your pure, innermost essence is hard when there is evil to do and paperwork to file.

If pressed, the Serpent of Eden would admit that he hadn’t gotten a good, long look at his true form since, well, right after his own Fall. Sure, he caught _glimpses _of it out the corner of his inner eyes every once in a while, but he didn’t like to dwell on what he saw; No Demon did.

So naturally, it was a surprise to Crowley that he woke up not in his own familiar, lanky corporation but in the in-between place where his actual self-resided.

In his head Crowley referred to the black in-between as the “Shuffle,” as in “Shuffle off the mortal coil”. He didn’t give it much thought but since it was the same nowhere place where his wings existed, he was very familiar with its workings.

First and foremost? the Shuffle was dark.

No, dark wasn’t a good enough word. Dark suggests that there is a natural opposite somewhere. The ether of the Shuffle, the nowhere space that comprised it, had no sun or stars. It was just an empty pocket of reality. The only thing that passed for “light” there came from Crowley.

Instinctively, moments after coming to his senses, the Demon tried to turn his head. It took him nearly a minute to remember his core being didn’t really _have_ one.

The Demon’s essence, his true self, was a snake with no head and no tail. He, although really Crowley’s essence had no gender, was only coils. The Demon was endless curls and spirals of black scale and arched muscle. A gigantic, monstrous ouroboros with no beginning and no end. Essentially, the original tempter was a cognizant, Celtic knot. 

The loops of Crowley’s soul slithered over one another continuously, their dry scales making sounds like the wind through autumn leaves. Over every inch of the Demon’s infinite, perpetual-motion machine of a self, Crowley was covered with wide, golden eyes. The eyes slit pupils expanded and contracted at random intervals, looking every direction at once as they traveled around in ceaseless circles.

Puzzled by his current circumstances Crowley rolled his individual eyes and took careful stock of himself; everything felt…off.

Although he didn’t remember his pre-Fall Angel form, Crowley thought that at one point his sinuous, snake-like self had been made of wrought gold instead of black scales. After his Fall Crowley’s scales had been sharp, razor-thin and jagged enough to cut through bone.

Currently, they seemed a bit on the _round _side. The Demon’s previously dagger sharp scales looked rounder, wider and alarmingly approachable, petering dangerously on the edge of endearing.

The feather black wings hovering disconnected on either side of Crowley’s body still looked their usual shade of coal black, but the feathers were treacherously _fluffy_. One could almost accuse them of looking soft and velvety, like a damn child’s toy.

Crowley rolled a few eyeballs currently sliding past his left wing and felt a thrill of concern go through him. Aside from being about as sharp as butter knives, it looked like some of Crowley’s feathers had lost their luster. It was like looking at the plumes of a taxidermized bird, not a living Demon.

Crowley watched, horrified, as a cluster of his down feathers fell from a wing and disappeared soundlessly into the gloom of the Shuffle.

Was he molting? Did his true form molt?

If he had been in his corporeal body the Demon’s heart would have started to pound in panic. It was exceedingly rare for Crowley to lose feathers on the mortal plane, among humans. Any feathers he lost were either given away or taken by force and he always did his best to get those back and disposed of.

Feather’s shed on earth didn’t disappear, the opposite in fact. As long as Crowley was alive any shed feathers would stay intact unless he burned them. But now, in the Shuffle his feathers just seemed to be...falling out.

It didn’t seem healthy.

As the Demon focused his attention out a separate set of eyes near his opposite wing, he felt a small pull at his consciousness. He had somehow accrued more eyes. There were more eyes than the last time had had been in his true form, Crowley was absolutely sure of it.

Crowley moved through his own self carefully, trying to find the source of the new pieces. He could look out every eye at once if he really wanted to but that got disorienting fast. He had grown too used to being in a human-shaped corporation.

After a long moment of shuffling through himself Crowley faltered. He glanced out through eyeballs the size of sewer lids. His body moved in a continuous silken band, branded with letters older than time and then he was- He was…

He was tiny as well as gigantic, he was able to fly and land on top of himself while he was still himself.

There were more of him, small bits that _were_ him but lived in the remains of his own empty eye socket. Just as the floating wings were him and the eyes were him and the shape was him the tiny things were him. Crowley gazed up at them/himself with the nearest convenient eye trying to figure out what they small things were.

After a bit of searching he found a tiny brown house sparrow.

It, and several others were perched inches from the tip of his right wing, and they were part of him. Just like Gabriel was part fire and Beelzebub were part swarm of flies, the sparrows were _HIM_; they were _CROWLEY _with a capital_ C_.

Without a mouth the Demon couldn’t voice the confusion he felt but his entire body rippled like a wave as he reacted internally. Since when had he become a bunch of _sparrows_? That was _definitely _new, and what did it mean exactly?

Crowley reached into the bit of himself that was birds and flexed experimentally. They reacted, chittered in the airless void and flit about in excited circles. Nope, there was no denying it, they had no individual minds, they were just part of the thing that was him.

Moving around the ribbons of himself on a tiny set of new wings Crowley found himself faced with a million new questions. Why sparrows? Was this Her doing? Why had his form changed? Was it because of the failed Apocalypse? And, most importantly, why _SPARROWS_? Why not a nice vulture or a good predatory bird like an eagle? Or really a crow would have been sufficient and appropriate.

Crowley flew into the enormous, empty aperture of his own eye and groomed his own small feathers apprehensively. He was trying to get a good handle on exactly how many sparrows he had become when something inside him went sideways.

The pain was so intense it sent ripples of hot electricity through Crowley’s essence. Every single one of his eyes flashed white in a single instant and for a few horrible seconds the Demon’s body stopped mid-flow; the natural liquid path of his infinite movements halted in their proverbial tracks. The formation of the nameless shape of Crowley jittered, taking an agonizing moment to restructure.

There was a soundless cry of pain that made the very emptiness of the Shuffle shake.

Crowley grappled with his consciousness, desperate to escape the agony burning through his essence. The Demon pushed himself up, forward and outwards all at once. He needed to be anywhere but where the monstrous pain was. The dark in-between of the Shuffle grew distant as Crowley found the narrow path into his body and yanked his mind back to the land of the living.

Crowley struggled to the surface of his corporation.

His human body ached terribly. He could feel a bruise forming on his tailbone and an egg-shaped bump throbbing on the back of his head. His mouth tasted nasty, like sick and something else stale he couldn’t even identify. The Demon’s tongue had a cottony film over it, and Crowley wished he could find the strength to miracle up a glass of ice-cold water; It felt like far too much work.

What had happened? Had he been somewhere? He vaguely remembered the Ritz and then darkness. Somewhere in the back of his mind Crowley knew he had briefly visited himself in the Shuffle, but the details of his trip were already getting bleary, smeared by an encroaching migraine.

The Demon struggled as the whole ordeal slipped out of his memory like the last remnants of a bad dream.

“Crowley? Dear heart, are you awake?”

The Angel’s voice reverberated from a fair distance and despite its softness Crowley found it aggravated the pain in his head. He could hear the fear in Aziraphale’s tone and felt immediately guilty for worrying him. He tried to open his eyes, to move forward.

The Demon made a noncommittal sound to show he was, indeed, awake. 

“Mmf...”

“Oh, thank goodness! You gave me such a fright.”

The world was dim. Even after opening his eyes Crowley couldn’t tell if he was wearing his glasses, in fact, he was having difficulty getting a handle on sensations in general. His extremities felt ice cold, and it took him an abnormally long time to identify the familiar frame of Aziraphale’s ancient sofa against his back.

“Crowley?”

“Azsss…”

The Demon couldn’t finish the name. Crowley coughed, it felt like there was something dry and solid stuck to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard to remove the odd sensation and heard his throat click. His body reminded him that he was very, very thirsty.

“Wa’er?”

“Oh Heavens, of course Crowley. Here…”

A hand pushed itself behind the Demon’s head, cupping gentle fingers behind his ear and cradling his skull. Crowley blinked upwards and with maddening slowness his vision began to clear; he was not wearing his sunglasses.

Maybe the dimness were his pupils refusing to let light in, something from the snake side of him relapsing. Yeah, sure, Crowley thought unconvincingly to himself, let’s go with that.

Aziraphale brought something to his lips and Crowley registered the smell of ceramic and clean water as his tongue flickered out, seemingly of its own accord. He took the drink being offered and gulped at it greedily, nearly choking in the process. 

Aziraphale hastily pulled the mug away from his mouth, laying him back against a small mountain of throw pillows.

“Ah, take it slow, don’t want you to choke.”

Crowley let his tongue dart between his lips a few more times, a bad habit that he was usually able to control unless he was exceedingly anxious. As human as he looked, there were just some serpentine habits so impossibly old he simply could not break them.

The comfortable bookshop scents enveloped the Demon as he pressed his tongue feebly to the roof of his mouth. Paper glue, parchment, tea, dust and even the faint presence of wood lice; it was all exactly as it should be, Angel included.

“Here, Dear…gently now.”

The Demon felt his head and shoulders lifted again, a refilled cup of water against his lips. Crowley struggled not to gulp this one down as fast as the first, forcing himself to take small sips. The water tasted so damn good, better than the finest wine.

After draining the cup three times Crowley was pleased to find the vicious taste was out of his mouth and his aching head felt clearer.

He let his hazy gaze focus on Aziraphale’s round, pallid face.

“thassss’ good. Thanksss.”

“Of course. Now, er-Crowley? Do you remember what happened? After dinner?”

A flicker of pain licked up Crowley’s spine, sliding luridly under his ribs and down his legs. It was distant, just an echo of something even more intense.

Crowley found he couldn’t remember much after dinner. His mind felt fuzzy, like an old, staticky tv tuned to a bad station. He had a tenuous recollection of puking which explained the carrion taste in his mouth.

“Drank…barfed, bl-blacked out.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands uneasily.

“I rather think it was more than that. You had what looked like a seizure. I’ve been trying to rouse you for an hour or more!”

Crowley moaned, irritated by the pounding headache and unexplained pain coursing through his body. He was too exhausted to consider seizures or whatever else Aziraphale was fretting about. After a nap maybe. After a nice, looooong siesta.

The Demon shivered; his voice cranky as he tried to get comfortable.

“s’bloody cold in here Angel.”

Aziraphale scowled.

“I shan’t be ignored about this Crowley. There is something very wrong with you!”

Crowley mumbled something unintelligible in reply and the Angel watched him tremble as he curled on his side, his body pressed tight into the back of the old sofa. It certainly didn’t feel that cold to the Angel, but he knew that Crowley had a sensitivity to these things. All the same, his behavior was so very peculiar it put Aziraphale ill at ease.

“Very well, we’ll discuss this later then…”

The Angel pulled a very fluffy, very thick, tartan comforter from the back of the sofa, where, quite possibly, it had not been moments before. Aziraphale went to work bundling his friend up warm as he could. The Demon didn’t stir even as Aziraphale tucked the heavy blanket under his body; somehow, he was already unconscious.

Aziraphale hesitated a moment, then sank down to sit next to the Demon on the antique settee. After further internal debate the Angel reached out to lay a hand lightly on the back of Crowley’s bare neck. His skin felt hot to the touch, mildly feverish. This added another concern to the Angel’s rapidly growing list.

Swallowing down his trepidation Aziraphale knit manicured nails into the Demon’s vivid hair and carded his fingers through the surprisingly soft strands. Crowley seemed intent on letting it grow out again, he hadn’t had a trim in quite a while.

Crowley gave no indication he felt the Angel’s touch but Aziraphale found caressing his friend’s hair helped to gather his scattered thoughts. He kept at it, eyes going unfocused as he stared into the middle distance, mind turning over the evening’s events. 

Vomiting, Chills, fever, fatigue? Not to mention the seizure. These were all bizarre symptoms for a Demon, especially considering Aziraphale could sense no illness in Crowley’s corporation.

A deep, watery fear was building In Aziraphale’s stomach. He had hoped, prayed, that when, not if, Heaven or Hell came for retribution again they would at least give he and Crowley a little time. Just a decade or so and perhaps…perhaps they would-

The Angel kept vigil over Crowley quietly, muscles taut, blinking forgotten as he contemplated his next steps. Without realizing it the Angel of the Eastern Gate was, once again, standing guard.

_Belmont Park Racetrack, Elmont, New York: 1975_

Ruffian’s favorite time of day the late evening, after she had been given a last rubdown, a good walk and a fresh layer of bedding in her stall.

Usually the track stables were subdued. Aside from the odd security guard or the stable hand on night duty there wasn’t a human in sight. Although it wasn’t as peaceful as her stable in Kentucky, Belmont was like a second home at this point. The filly knew the place like she knew the corners of the pasture where she was a foal.

Ruffian was pleased the day was over. For some reason there had been more buzz, more excitement over her arrival at Belmont than usual. The typical smells were waiting for her outside the confining metal of her trailer; manure, dust and human sweat, but the usual smell of strange horse wasn’t as strong.

That meant she was running a smaller race, maybe even an exhibition race. Ruffian couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. She lived for the larger races, full tracks and big crowds were the most fun.

Ruffian fondly recalled the sounds of her fellow Runners on the night before her debut race. They were all as nervous as her, a gaggle of filly’s just barely out of yearling awkwardness. All of them ready to get out there and show off the meticulous prestige of their bloodlines.

Really there wasn’t anything to make a fuss about. Those had been simple maiden races, a test of mettle and an entry point into an actual racing career; Ruffian hadn’t understood that at the time. Her dam had told her a fair amount about what the future held for her, but she wasn’t good with the specifics.

The filly gazed up dreamily at the soft lamplight hanging over her stall, it illuminated dark puddles of water on the ground near a half-full trough.

She always felt a little tug inside when she thought of her mother, her dam, Shenanigans. Racehorses, always the consummate professionals, do not like to admit to homesickness or heartache. Ruffian knew that she was much too old to be pining for her Mother’s pasture. No doubt Shenanigans was already with foal again, possibly nursing a future Runner.

Perhaps someday Ruffian would run against her own half-sibling.

The thought brought a frisson of pleasure up the filly’s back and she shivered under her thin summer sheet. She watched a moth bump gently against the glass of her stall lamp and snorted quietly, thoughts roaming back to that first maiden race.

Glass Bottle and Trusting Grace had been in the stalls either side of her, whispering as the first light appeared in a slice of blue-black sky outside the stable overhang. In the maiden races, the virgin races as her dam had called them, everyone started on even ground. No one was a champion just yet.

Ruffian had already felt like a champion that night. In her bones there were sparks of something she couldn’t explain. They felt like lightening seeds. Seeds that would burst out the bottom of her hooves and propel her over the ground until the world was nothing but wind.

Her trainer Frank, who she loved very much, was one of the only creatures who had seen her bursting with the lightning sparks before that first maiden race.

Afterwards_ everyone _had seen.

Ruffian had won her first race by fifteen lengths; the nearest horse had been 120 feet away. The only disappointment that day came when Ruffian found she hadn’t beaten the track record, only tied it.

Honestly, the whole debut had barely felt like a real challenge, but It was such a vivid memory. The first time Ruffian had laid hoof to turf, sending up great plumes of dirt as she left the other Runners far behind her.

The sparks in her bones had lit up like lightbulbs, moving up her spine and out her nostrils in puffs of electric air. She had seem them all flagging, realized she didn’t need to go full speed to beat them but, just beating them wasn’t_ enough, _she had to _destroy_ them.

One of Ruffian’s grandsires was Native Dancer, the Gray Ghost, one of the greatest Runners in the history of racing. Humans had celebrated him. Ruffian’s dam told her that his story and images of him were worshipped in something called a “museum.” A grand stable where human’s kept important memories. He had won nearly every race he had ever run, and Ruffian was his spitting image in all but color.

Ruffian often heard jockey’s praise her glorious bloodline. There were always mentions of her sire and grandsire but even more of her uncle. His name was like hers, just one word: Secretariat.

Ruffian liked the name. She had met so many Runner’s with complex names that were a mouthful for trainers and riders. Human’s speech was difficult to understand on a regular basis but following a conversation between two humans’ saying a bunch of long Runner names was even more frustrating.

Ruffian’s dam often told her that eavesdropping was a very bad habit, like relentless bit-grinding or wood chewing. The filly knew this, but she just couldn’t help it. She knew that human’s made wager’s about which Runner would win a race.

One of the old broodmare’s in Kentucky had told her about that. They called it “betting” and often did it for “money”. The same broodmare had tried to explain the money, but Ruffian could never quite grasp the concept behind it. 

Ruffian flicked an ear up when she caught the sound of distant music. Some stable hand had turned on a radio from the sound of it. The filly was glad for the distraction. She didn’t like to admit it but nights before a race could sometimes make her nervous; music helped.

Swishing her tail sluggishly Ruffian focused on the soft strains of sound drifting from a far-off part of the stable. She bobbed her head in time with the beat, it did a lot to calm the anxious flutters in her gut.

“You like Bowie?”

The voice surprised Ruffian so much she nearly kicked the back of her stall in surprise. Snorting angrily the filly flicked her head to the stalls around her, searching for the voice’s owner. They had been speaking in a four-footed vernacular, but their equine accent was _terrible_.

“The song. It’s Fame by David Bowie. Good song.”

This time Ruffian was able to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. Down, at the foot of her stall. Huffing an impatient breath, the filly glared downwards and found a goat loitering casually in front of her stall.

Ruffian curled her upper lip and tossed her head. Now that the surprise had worn off, she knew exactly what she was looking at. It was a companion goat.

“Look, I’m sure your just doing your job but I don’t really need-er, _calming _this evening. So, you can just go on your way.”

It was no secret that most Runners were high-strung. Ruffian didn’t like to consider herself skittish, but she knew she could be jumpy as any filly her age. She had once seen a stallion named Early Bird spook himself so bad during warmups he ran right into a wooden wall and ended his career before it even started.

Some of these horses found it soothing to have a calmer animal around. Usually another horse would come with them from their farm to the racetrack. This made sense to Ruffian, traveling with a friend would be nice. However, for nervy horses that didn’t have that particular luxury, tracks like Belmont kept _companion_ animals.

Trainers talked a big game of these so-called calming creatures. Ruffian had heard of human’s keeping everything from pigs to donkeys to, well, goats. For whatever reason goats were the most popular.

The goat fixed Ruffian with an unnerving glare.

“I don’t like Diva racehorses. Hell, I don’t like horses’ period and I’m not here to calm you or whatever. Don’t act like such a little shit.”  
The filly flared her nostrils. The idea that a scraggly goat would insult a thoroughbred of her caliber brought Ruffian’s blood to a low boil. She gave a loud whinny and tossed her head again in agitation.

“You! -how dare you speak to-I don’t even… Aren’t you supposed to be butting your head into a wall somewhere? Huh? _Helper goat_?”

Ruffian was surprised when the goat blinked at her then something strange happened to his face. He drew back his lips and exposed his teeth like a human would. It was unnerving to see a goat trying to mimic such a humanoid expression. It was more unnerving to see his teeth were unnaturally sharp for a ruminants.

“That’s rich. What do you do that’s so special then? Run in fast circles? Valuable skill that is. I know you think your hot shit, but personally I’m not impressed.”

Ruffian just stared at the goat, mouth agape. She was used to being treated with reverence by humans and animals alike. Everyone knew she was a Runner and a blue-blooded one at that. The goat’s attitude was like being splashed with cold water and she could only press her ears back and stare at him in utter disbelief. 

“Do you _know _who I AM?”

She nearly bellowed, her voice echoing to the stable rafters. The goat pretended to think for a moment, tilting his sizable horns back and pushing out his bottom lip before he answered indifferently.

“A horse? A fancy horse? A fancy, runny horse? Mm, you’re real fancy huh? How about I call you Princess. That make you feel better your majesty?”

Ruffian bristled and for the first time since she was a yearling, she felt the hot-blooded urge to snap her teeth. It faded quickly when the goat started to laugh, a low, dark chuckle escaping his shaggy throat.

Although smiling is not common among horses, laughter was as commonplace as running and most equines enjoyed a good joke. Ruffian grew up in a very serious pasture and had been so focused on her training and career she had almost forgotten what laughing looked like. She watched the goat and realized he had been teasing her.

No one ever teased her. The goat wasn’t far off when he had compared her to royalty. That’s how she had been treated her whole, sheltered life. 

Ruffian stepped back and actually took a moment to look at the animal, taking in his appearance with judicious scrutiny.

He was a strange looking goat. He was very thin, and his coat was the same yellowish-green as ripe apples, or maybe fresh blood; Ruffian couldn’t decide which. The goats fur curled in long ringlets around his stubby legs and his long horns curled towards the back of his head in a strange waving pattern. It reminded the filly of an animal she had seen near a fence post as a foal; her dam had called it a snake.

The oddest thing about the goat was his eyes. They were very yellow, which, in itself wasn’t odd for a goat but Ruffian was sure that the black part was all wrong. The goat’s pupil was thin and instead of being horizontal like other goats it was slit vertical, cutting straight through the middle of the golden-yellow bit.

Ruffian spoke, voice prim.

“I think you should leave right now. I happen to have a race in the morning. Also, you are doing _quite_ the opposite of calming me right now I’ll have you know.”

The goat leaned casually on a bale of hay just a few feet from Ruffian’s stall and gave her an exasperated look.

“About that race tomorrow. You know anything about it, have any idea who you’re running against?”

Again, the goat didn’t seem at all intimidated by Ruffian. All her cachet and breeding meant absolutely nothing to him. Human’s wrote about her calling her things like “Queen of the track” or “Filly of the Century” and this strange, scrawny goat didn’t give a _spit_. 

Ruffian considered turning around so the dirty thing could speak to her tail end, but she stopped herself. There was something… refreshing, in being spoken to as an equal. The filly hadn’t quite decided if she disliked it completely.

She was also truly curious about the next day’s race.

“I had thought it was an exhibition race considering how empty the stalls are. Given my record so far I believe my trainer has been approached by others for one on one races.”

The goat bobbed his head in agreement.

“Nice to see you’ve got some brain’s Princess; I’ve met some stupid royals in the past.”

“Why would a goat meet royals?”

“Why not?”

The goat bared his oddly sharp canines and Ruffian took it as a warning to back off the subject.

“So? What can you tell me about tomorrow’s race?”  
She asked slowly.

“I know it’s a match race. You against some horse named Fool-something- “

Ruffian felt her pulse pick-up and she whipped her tail against her rump in consternation.

“Foolish Pleasure?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Pulling her head in over the stall door Ruffian turned a tight, excited circle. She was going to race Foolish Pleasure! Fresh from his win at the Kentucky Derby no less!

Ignoring the filly’s excitement, the goat just kept talking.

“I also know you shouldn’t run it.”

Ruffian stopped dead in her tracks.

“Not race? Ha! Not a chance of that! Foolish Pleasure is- well, he’s a champion! I’m finally being given a chance to prove myself! This is a thrill, a delight!”

The goat bleated so loudly it hurt Ruffian’s ears, shouting to be heard.

“Hey! Princess! I’m not kidding!”

Ruffian snorted and turned one bright eye towards the goat. She lay her ears back prissily but something in the animal’s tone made her want to at least listen to what he had to say.

“Alright then, why not? Why wouldn’t I race?”

With a clickety-clack of cloven hooves the goat sauntered over to the stall and placed his front feet up on the door.

“Look, this is gonna be hard to explain but…I work for some bad people. I’m a bad, er, goat. This match race you’re in. Well, somebody made a deal with one of my people to rig it. You’re the favorite to win. He’s gonna get a lot of money when you lose.”

Ruffian felt her ire rise, opened her mouth to answer but the goat pressed on, still talking. He glared at her with those strange, erroneous eyes.

“Your race with the Pleasure horse. It’s become this cultural thing. They’re calling it the battle of the sexes so it’s like, how do I explain it-representative of something the humans are going through and…I’ve completely lost you, haven’t I?”

Ruffian really was trying to understand, but nothing the goat said made much sense. In racing a horses’ gender meant nothing. A Runner could be male or female and their career would be no different. Even if a human had bet a lot of the money thing on the race, she wasn’t going to run any differently.

“I’m going to run.”

“Even if I tell you its fixed and you won’t win?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I tell you they might try and kill you, hurt you so you lose?”

Ruffian threw her head in the air proudly.

“No matter what happens a true Runner finishes a race! My dam told me that.”

The goat groaned.

“Yeah, thought you’d say as much Princess.

Ruffian couldn’t help herself. She decided she liked the weird goat. He acted like a thoroughbred, but he was so very small. He was obviously intelligent even if he didn’t make much sense and she felt like he really was trying to do something nice for her even if he was wrong.

“I promise I’ll be very careful.”

The filly said delicately as she leaned down to nuzzle the goat’s nose with hers. He jumped but after a quick look over his shoulder let Ruffian nibble at the tuft of fur on top of his head.

He was practically begging as he spoke again.

“Come on Princess, can’t you just pretend to be sick or something? I mean- “

“What is your name goat?”

“Huh? Oh, Crowley-look I’m serious. just throw a horseshoe, fake a cough. The Angel would- “

A bang somewhere in the stable made the goat, Crowley, jump. He pushed back from the stall as footsteps echoed somewhere distant.

“Shit. I gotta go, they can’t see me here. Think about what I said Princess! Just, don’t run!”

Ruffian watched Crowley scoot away into an empty corner of the stables. Her thoughts were already on strategy. The best way to get ahead of a Derby winner and keep her lead. Crowley would feel better once he saw her in the winner’s circle. Really, the only worry the filly had now was how she would get enough sleep tonight as excited as she was.

Ruffian stood behind the starting gate with her usual composure but inside she could feel her heart thumping, her sides already heaving. She drew a harsh breath in through her nostrils and blew it out scuffing a hoof against the rich racetrack dirt.

From the moment she had stepped out of the stables something felt off and the filly felt uneasy. Ruffian tried very hard not to think about Crowley’s repeated warnings not to race.

The crowd was quite a bit larger than normal; the goat hadn’t exaggerated about the significance of this race. She was trying hard not to think about his repeated warnings about the race. Human’s really did seem to be under the impression this race was meant to prove some bigger issue that Ruffian really couldn’t wrap her mind around.

If the goat was right about that what else was he right about?

The sky seemed close to the ground, oppressive. There was hardly any wind, but Ruffian could almost scent something like autumn in the July air. There was a hint of old wood, burning leaves and decaying mulch. It didn’t smell like a racetrack should and even the gate seemed to squeeze at her body.

The filly felt her jockey Jacinto give her neck a reassuring pat. He was a good jockey; he knew when to push and she had always liked to run with him but now his touch felt cold.

There was a hissing sound that wasn’t the distant din of the crowd.

Ruffian ignored it, eyes and attention forward. She stared longingly at the track and felt some of her anxiety subside as she thought of the race, of the electricity through her feet and the roar of speed through her mane.

She heard Foolish Pleasure stamp and settle in the gate at her right-hand side. She had watched him during the walk to the starting line and he seemed so unbothered by everything it made her a tad envious. He was a titleholder, uncontested in nearly all his races. He wasn’t there to prove himself; she was.

They didn’t speak. It was considered bad etiquette to speak to another Runner at the gate. Any distraction was discourteous and could end in a bad start, an unfair race. Ruffian wished she could have said something to him, something in her wanted to hear a kind equine voice before all this, although she couldn’t say why.

The gate was being cleared, the crowd getting restless. Ruffian had managed to achieve her usual post-game sense of weightless calm and she let her muscles sink into the correct stance, ready to find her stride at the sound of the start buzzer.

As it always did the race happened in a violent instant and in the first seconds of the door bursting open several things happened at once.

As the bell rang and the gate opened the filly could feel something touch her. A human-like hand pressed deep into the top of her hip and shoved her entire back half sideways into the hard gate wall.

Stunned, she leapt into her start instead of pulling into it and in that five second push she could already feel her step was off, her gait ruined; stupidly, she ignored it.

Moving past the bad start Ruffian felt all the stress of the race, the starting gate, the goat’s advice-all fade into familiar muted silence. She looked ahead, waiting to see the finishing line, to see the goal.

Each footfall jolted lightning into her bones, up her back. She became lost in the electricity as she always did, just happy to be running. She wouldn’t stop now, couldn’t.

She would finish and make the people happy, make her trainer and dam proud. She had to cross the finish line. She wouldn’t stop. There was a blur of yellow and black at her side, but it was behind her now. She was ahead of Foolish Pleasure, enveloped in the pure joy only a Runner with a good lead could feel. All she had to do was keep up the pace.

Abruptly, there was an unexpected flash of grey, close. A huge creature loomed in Ruffian’s eyeline. For just a few seconds she was taken out of her racing headspace, long enough to realize that the blur she had seen was a pigeon on the racetrack.

Too late to stop what was coming.

The half-stop had combined with her off gait and turned it into something she could hardly manage. Frantically the filly tried to adjust her speed, attempted to put on another burst and correct the pattern of her footfalls. She could feel herself veering into Foolish Pleasure’s lane, her shoulder grinding into his neck as they both galloped pell-mell into a turn.

Ruffian felt something tear, rupture and an unprecedented explosion of pain.

There was a crack, like ice thawing in an early winter morning. Like a piece of half-rotted wood crunching underfoot. The noise was so loud Ruffian could hear it over the wind and her own pulse thundering in her ears.

Another step, the pain was worse.

The filly tried to plow forward but the moment she put weight on her right foreleg there was an unfamiliar give, blinding anguish. The electricity inside Ruffian burned brighter, she had no time for this. She was in the middle of a race.

Tossing her head backwards Ruffian spotted Foolish Pleasure pulling ahead and without another thought for the pain she felt her vision narrow to the track again.

She couldn’t let him destroy her perfect win record.

Jacinto was trying to pull her up. Ruffian could feel the jockey struggling to pull her head around and for a brief moment she was seized with doubt. Crowley had warned her. Why hadn’t she just done as he said? She could have pretended to be lame; she could have faked sick she could have…

Pleasure was tearing away, he seemed to have gotten faster.

Ruffian could see his rear legs pumping, moving away from her, his lead growing to almost a furlough. She dug into the turf, completely unaware of the blood trail she was leaving behind. Her back hoof was hanging on by a thread of skin and tissue, ligaments torn, but the filly just kept running.

Shock was taking over and with it the realization that she couldn’t win this race. Ruffian let that sink in only a half second before she thought something else, something significant.

If she couldn’t win the race, she was at least going to _finish_ it.

For her ancestors, her bloodline, herself- Ruffian was going to finish this race.

The world was growing foggy, numb and oddly silent. The electricity was disappearing from what remained of Ruffian’s legs even If the adrenaline didn’t leave her blood. People were touching her, and the filly couldn’t tell if she was running anymore.

She felt more touches, voices and all she could think was that she needed to run. She had to cross the finish line. She had to _finish!_

The world flickered in and out. There were colors, more voices, muffled sensations and distant smells. Was she still on the racetrack? She had to be, it was hard to tell and between black pauses in her awareness no time at all seemed to pass.

Gathering her strength Ruffian managed to figure out where her legs were and with a push she started to run. She had no jockey, but she knew that she was running. She moved her feet in perfect rhythm, found her breath and lurched into a gallop.

“Alright Princess. You made your point.”

Running became easier. The darkness lengthened and Ruffian found there was suddenly room for her to spread out, room to move. She chanced a look to the side and saw a yellowy-green blur.

It was the goat, it was Crowley! Although he seemed to be moving at a speed no goat could really go. He spoke again voice somehow unfathomably sad.

“Come on. You want to race out of here? Catch me then.”

The blur of horns and hooves and bright yellow eyes moved ahead, and Ruffian couldn’t help but give a whinny of joy as she pulled further onto the odd track.

The wind was back, and, in the distance, she could see a break in the shadow, a sliver of daylight and the familiar silhouette of the Belmont grandstand.

Somehow, she had shaken all the people off and had gotten back onto the track. She was entering the clubhouse turn. The goat bounded beside her; his curly hair blown flat to his thin body. For just a moment Ruffian was sure she saw wings on his back. Not the grey wings of the pigeon who had tripped her up. Big black wings, like a crow.

They were there and then they weren’t, and Ruffian put on a joyous burst of speed.

The last thing she heard before she was crossing the finish line to somewhere huge and golden and eternal was the little goat’s melancholy voice.

“You won Princess. Good race.”

_Heaven and Hell Coffee Lounge, London, England: Present Day._

After many sunrises and sunsets Jersey was finally becoming acclimated to the smells of London.

Every single person smelled of at least a dozen different things and there were so many, many people that all of their different scents was a chaotic mist of information that never stopped. The Devil had come to appreciate rainy days, of which thankfully there were many, because they diluted the smells of everything else.

The Jersey Devil had only left Theckla’s shop a handful of times since arriving on the airplane. And, despite the relentless sensory overload, he thought he was beginning to understand human’s better.

In some ways they were much like the animals he observed at home. Camper’s, Jersey understood, were in the Pine Barren’s to relax so they moved slower. In London, on their own home turf, humans moved quickly and with purpose. They seemed to always be on their way somewhere and he was jealous of their apparent ability to tune out the wonders on every street corner.

Today Jersey felt sick.

He couldn’t help it. He felt strangely guilty about what he and Theckla had done yesterday at the very fancy Ritz building full of delicious smelling food and luxurious smelling people. The Demon the were hunting had just been sitting at a table eating with his friend and they had hurt him.

Jersey could tell the Demon and the other person, the Angel, were friends by the way they gestured and spoke. Words could be hard to say and harder to understand at times, but body language was easy. Animal’s used it, bird used it and, without knowing it, humans used it constantly.

Although he still wasn’t clear on _exactly_ what an Angel or Demon was the Devil could safely say they projected body language the same as any squirrel or Labor Day hiker.

The Demon had been leaning in close to the Angel. He had a smile on his face, his shoulder’s relaxed and his breathing slow. He hadn’t been looking out for danger, he had just been enjoying himself. For his part the Angel, who had a lovely voice, had leaned right back.

Both of them had smelled so overwhelmingly _good_. Jersey had caught a whiff of them the moment he and Theckla had snuck into the back of the restaurant.

The Demon smelled like forest fire, rocks heated by the sun, shed snakeskin and just a hint of gasoline. The Angel smelled like early morning mist, the chocolate drink young campers liked when it was chilly, spring flowers and the insides of trees. They both smelled like many more things underneath, not all of which Jersey recognized.

The Devil didn’t know exactly what the Demon had done to deserve punishment, but after Theckla had poisoned his food Jersey hadn’t felt right. What they did hadn’t been fair.

They weren’t going to eat-what was his name? Crow-lee. They weren’t going to eat Crow-lee, he wasn’t given a chance to run or fight and he hadn’t really done anything to them.

None of that mattered at all, Jersey knew that; he really did. He had poisoned Crow-lee because he wanted to be a Demon and Theckla needed something back from the Demon and Angel people.

Those were good enough reasons to kill the Demon but… it still hadn’t felt very honest. It was like when human hunters killed deer and mountain lions with the really big guns. The ones that could shoot so fast Jersey lost count of the shots.

Jersey hadn’t spoken when Theckla woke him, or when she told him she had gotten a phone call from the Demon’s and Angels and they were going to meet them all. The Legend was still having trouble finding words as he sat at a little table in the corner of an odd shop that sold coffee. 

Coffee was another smell Jersey knew well from spying on campers.

The walls of the coffee place were painted bright white and everywhere Jersey looked he could see sculptures and framed pictures of human’s with white bird wings.

Theckla returned to the little table with two large plastic cups in hand. She smiled and put one down in front of Jersey.

“Here you go Bossman, I think you’ll like it. Fizzy strawberry lemonade.”

Jersey sniffed at the cup, offered Theckla a small smile and finally found something to say.

“Thank you.”

During his stay Theckla had given the Devil all sorts of wonderful foods and even more bubbly soda, which was by far his favorite. She was patient, asked him questions and kept him safe in her den full of dust and old furniture.

It was safe to say that if anyone even looked at Theckla the wrong way Jersey wouldn’t hesitate to rip their arms off at the shoulders. He didn’t like to hurt creatures without good reason but protecting Theckla was a very, very good reason.

Theckla sat across from the Devil and took a sip from her own cup. Black tea, Jersey could smell it; It was one of Theckla’s favorites. Her flat, the upper part of her den-shop, reeked of it.

Jersey looked up at the strange human’s with wings surrounding their table again, tilting his head to the side slightly. He was trying to parse them out, them and the odd scenery surrounding them.

They were Angels or, at least, they were supposed to be. Theckla had explained the décor when they first entered before she left to order them drinks. They didn’t look at all like the Angel’s they had met before in the burger restaurant, the ones they were supposed to meet again today.

For one, those Angels had been Dark haired and bald, respectively. All of these angels looked blonde and blue eyed. They frolicked in fields and a lot of them were small, chubby babies. They were flying through the blue sky completely naked and holding wreathes of brightly colored flowers.

How could the two things be the same? Did all Angels have wings? If so, why didn’t the two Angels they had met before have them, or the one in the fancy restaurant. Why had the Angel at the Ritz-place smelled so good while the ones before smelled so bad?

The Angel eating dinner with Crow-lee looked a bit like the wall Angels. At least his hair was blondish-white.

The Devil sipped at his drink. It was good; foamy, tart and sweet all at once. It made his tongue curl up in his mouth, but even it wasn’t enough to distract him from the paintings. 

Grasping at the shoulder strap of the leather bag at his back, Jersey pulled it around and set it in his lap. The special knife, Miss Hertha, was inside in her fancy box. They hadn’t said to bring Hertha but Theckla seemed to think they were returning her today.

Jersey knew Miss Hertha could be mean, but he didn’t like the idea of giving her back to the nasty smelling Angels.

“Alright there Jersey?”

The Legend felt the skin on his back crawl and focused his attention back on his friend across the table. He was about to answer when he felt a strong hand clap him roughly on the back.

Turning, Jersey hissed loudly and bared his teeth. He felt his wings about ready to pop out into the coffee shop reflexively.

“Whoa! Easy there buddy! Just being friendly!”

The dark-haired Angel, the man who had showed them the picture and given them Miss Hertha was back. He was alone this time, the man with no hair was nowhere to be seen. 

Theckla stood nervously.

“Oh, don’t mind Jersey Mr.-Mr. Gabriel. I’m glad to se- “

Gabriel interrupted Theckla mid-word with a forced laugh as he folded his arms aggressively over his chest.

“We’ve been waiting for you downstairs. You’re _late_.”

Theckla gave a tense unconvincing laugh.

“We-we really aren’t. The note said noon and we just got here.”

Gabriel eyed her, the plastic smile never leaving his lips. He stayed silent for an uncomfortably long moment before clapping his hands so loudly it made everyone in the immediate area jump.

“Well how about you grab your drinks and come on downstairs so we can start?”

Theckla picked up her tea and stood, glancing towards Jersey to make sure he was following. She turned back to ask Gabriel a follow-up question, but he was already walking briskly across the coffee shop towards an open door.

Jersey cast Theckla a sideways glance, she shrugged and the both of them followed the Angel out of Heaven. The dark doorway across from a glass display case of baked goods was actually a stairway. It led down to a second sitting room where patrons could drink their coffee. The stairs were dimly lit, the walls painted grey and the moment Jersey set foot into the basement room he froze.

There were snarling monsters and painted flames smothering the walls. The creatures had horns and tails, some of which even looked like the Legend’s. In fact, some of them had hoofed feet and skull like heads. It wasn’t their appearance that really startled Jersey it was what they were doing.

In between lakes of boiling acid and pits of flame the creatures were _torturing people. _Some of the humans were thrashing about on the ends of pitchforks, others were being torn in half or impaled on sharp stalagmites. All the humans were screaming silently, portrayed in gruesome detail.

Jersey’s breath came in short puffs. He pulled his hands to his chest, clinging to his lemonade, and took a step back running square into Theckla.

“Jersey, are you alright?”

The Devil, still staring wide eyed at other, different sorts of devil’s, shook his head weakly. Despite his obvious trepidation the Legend was quickly pressed forward deeper into the Hell portion of the café by an overenthusiastic Gabriel.

The horrendously clean Angel smell of him was suddenly joined by a rotting Demon smell. Jersey, still clutching his drink like a lifeline, looked over and spotted the glowering Demon Lord he had made a deal with what seemed like ages ago.

Beelzebub tapped a finger impatiently on the top of the corner table where they sat in casual dress. They didn’t look quite as foreboding without the ragged clothing or massive fly on their head, but Jersey would have recognized their eyes and stench anywhere.

The Leed’s Devil took a seat across from the Prince of Hell and Theckla sat next to him. Gabriel sat comfortably next to Beelzebub. From the look of several empty coffee cups on the Prince’s side, they had indeed been there for a while.

The Archangel beamed at everyone so hard his teeth gleamed in the light of a nearby neon sign.

“Alright! So down to business then!”

Snarling into a half-full mug of cappuccino the Prince of Hell spoke.

“Well? Progress report?”

Theckla put her own drink down slowly, eyes going very round behind her glasses. It was hard not to be intimidated. Gabriel had said Beelzebub would also there but actually seeing was kind of a shock. Just reconciling Heaven and Hell were both out to hurt someone-some people _together_ was kind of a shock. Before they had appeared with the Knife Theckla had thought she was just clearing up some business with Hell. Things had rapidly grown more complicated.

“I-we used Herth-er, the Knife, on the Demon’s food last night. At the Ritz. He was with the Angel…”

Gabriel interjected crisply, his voice eager.

“And Aziraphale didn’t sense either of you? Or the Knife?”

“No, I don’t think so…Neither of them seemed to notice us or anything off with the food. I saw the Demon take a bite off a plate and he drank some wine which we also purified. So, he should be infected or-or poisoned or whatever…”

Gabriel grinned wider and elbowed Beelzebub enthusiastically, they rolled ice blue eyes.

“Hah, I told you! I knew it would work.”

The Prince raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Not over yet. We thought we had it all figured out last time if you recall.”

The Archangel was so sterling and shimmery while the Demon seemed to melt into the nearest shadows. Despite their obvious, er, theological differences, the two creatures almost seemed…_friendly _with one another. They acted almost like the Demon and Angel in the Ritz.

Clearing her throat Theckla tried to get Gabriel’s attention. He was daunting but slightly easier to talk to.

“So-so are we done? We brought back Mis-The Knife.”

Beelzebub gave Theckla a glare that could have curled paint.

“Is he dead?”

“I-n-no…but we did what you asked- “

Theckla looked to Jersey to see if he would back her up and was surprised to see that he was shivering inside his hoodie. There was lemonade spilt down his front and a crumpled glass held tight in his hands. He was looking at a huge, gruesome mural of Hell in front of them; Theckla hadn’t even noticed it.

The Prince of Hell thumped a fist on the table and Theckla nearly leapt out of her skin.

“You get what you want when we get a dead Demon. Crowley’s corpse or no dealzzz.”

Beelzebub’s final word came out with an agitated buzz. Gabriel held his hands up nonchalantly.

“You have to understand things from our perspective Thesta. Besides, the job is pretty much done. You did what we asked, you’ve done great! We’re just asking you to put in a little extra effort, go that extra mile!”

Theckla didn’t bother to correct Gabriel, she didn’t think he would listen even if she did. Putting a comforting hand on Jersey’s lower back she just nodded.

“A-Alright.”

Gabriel winked cheerily.

“Don’t worry though! We have something that’s going to make your job 200 percent easier right Beez?”

Beelzebub scowled at their ethereal companion before reaching a hand into their overcoat. With more care than seemed natural to a Demon Beelzebub pulled something dark and fuzzy out of an interior pocket and placed it delicately in the middle of the table.

It was a large, black feather.

“This is one of his. We keep one on file for every Demon.”

The feather was so beautiful. It looked silky, the edges a little mussed but it shone like the top of an oil slick.

“This is-Crowl-The target’s feather?”

Theckla asked in an awestruck voice. She felt Jersey’s shivering ease a bit under her hand. Beelzebub slugged back their coffee, finishing the mug with a long slurp before getting up from the table.

“When he’s really dead? This thing will poof into dust. Sicker he gets the more it will wilt. If it isn’t wilting, then I suggest you two give him a second dose. I _will_ be expecting updates.”

Reaching out slowly Theckla picked up the feather reverently. It was warm to the touch.

Working up a sliver of courage Theckla met Beelzebub’s chill gaze.

“I know its not…its not important to the job but…what did he-they do? Why-“  
Gabriel cut her off, fastidiously adjusting his tie. Apparently, despite lasting about two minutes the meeting was now over.

“Now, now-Testa! You know what humans say about cats and curiosity!”

Beelzebub slapped the Angel’s hands away from his tie, standing on tiptoes to adjust his collar for him before shooting Theckla a nasty smile.

“Let’s just keep this professional kitty cat.”

Theckla nodded dumbly.

In her hand she could just see the feather start to droop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley pull yourself together.
> 
> History notes
> 
> Ruffian’s section took a lot of weirdly specific research. Not only is she a 100 percent real horse her final race, the battle of the sexes, is 100 percent real. Ruffian ran against Foolish Pleasure in 1975 and had to be put down after she sustained massive injuries to her back legs. She kept trying to run, even during the surgery attempt to save her life. She was buried in Belmont park with her nose pointing towards the finish line. Her death made a huge impact on the racing industry and cause a wave of reforms. Although, in my opinion there are still too many horse deaths and one wonders why we even need the barbaric sport anymore.
> 
> Here is an actual documentary made in the 70’s where you can see Ruffian and some footage of her last race which I watched about 1000 times. You don’t see anything graphic of her injuries in this thank goodness. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_OGZc3FaoU&t=194s
> 
> Ruffian actually was related to secretariat, if it wasn’t for her tragic death she could have been the greatest racehorse to ever live. The exact cause of her accident is still debated so I thought it would be interesting to put in some demonic intervention.
> 
> Horse note: Crowley as a goat has red hair but horses can’t see the color red which is why she describes him as yellowy-green. 
> 
> The Heaven and Hell café is based on a real coffee shop that existed in Soho in the 1950s. It was based on the really famous one in France which had a legit up and downstairs where you could drink coffee in heaven or hell themed rooms. 
> 
> The chapter title comes from a bible verse. Habakkuk 1:8  
Their horses are swifter than leopards, fiercer than wolves at dusk; their horsemen press proudly on. Their horsemen come from afar; they fly like an eagle swift to devour.


	7. Aww, Shucks

_ The Sky Over London: Present Day _

The Jersey Devil, formally of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, was absolutely, utterly miserable. He was hungry, tired and soaked to the bone. Plus, on top of the physical discomfort the Devil, the repulsive monster of song and legend, was terrified to the point of tears.

To top it all off he was, at the moment, also very lost.

Jersey flared his wings and let a gust of wind push him high up into a thick bank of grey cloud cover. He had been flying in tight circles over, what he assumed was still London, for a good half hour.

The Legend had been too afraid to fly forward in a straight line, he had absolutely no idea what lay beyond the city’s borders. Jersey was reasonably confident that if he just went far enough, he would reach an open expanse of ocean. Somewhere, on the far side of that ocean, was home.

If he just flew far enough Jersey thought that maybe- maybe he could get back to the Barrens. But, the more he thought about this, the more he wondered what would happen if actually found the ocean. What if he got lost while flying over it?

What if he got too tired and crashed into the water? He wasn’t a strong swimmer.

What if someone saw him in the sky and tried to shoot him with a hunting rifle? He had never been shot before but he knew what damage bullets could do, could they kill him?

Sharp little daggers of sleet hard rain pelted Jersey’s skin and a violent wind tore at his mane, pulling at old rips in the soft, inner membrane of his wings. He wasn’t good when it came to flying up high where the air was thin. Jersey liked to glide between trees and over forest canopies; searching for squirrels or campfire smoke.

Jersey just wanted to go home.

He wanted to curl deep inside his cave and never come out. He also wanted to fly back and tell Theckla he was sorry he had growled at her. He was very, _very_ sorry that they had fought and he didn’t want her to hate him. She was the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend.

It had all gone so wrong after the meeting in the coffee shop, after Jersey had finally learned what a Demon really was; what they were supposed to do. Hell wasn’t just a bad place because it was hot and boring like the Barrens in summer. Hell was bad because its where humans went then they died. Where _bad_ humans who did _bad_ things went. They went there to be punished and it was the Demons who did the punishing. Demon’s hurt humans in Hell, stabbing and clawing and eating them forever and ever.

Theckla had acted surprised when Jersey asked her about Hell, about the pictures on the walls of the coffee shop. The Legend had managed to keep all his questions inside until they got back to Theckla’s dusty furniture den in Camden. He had barely been able to hold them during the car ride back. The questions kept threatening to burst out, like a burp after drinking a big glass of soda-pop.

Theckla had pulled out an old book and showed Jersey more pictures like the coffee-shop murals. There were pictures of Demons hurting naked humans in large groups. Pictures of Demons swallowing people whole, burning them, putting them on sharp sticks and a whole bunch of other things that Jersey didn’t even have names for.

Theckla said that’s why she was hurting the Demon Crow-lee. If she didn’t kill him, she was going to go to Hell. She was going to be one of the people stuck on sticks and thrust into a big, hot forest fire miles and miles underground.

After she told him this Jersey felt scared and dizzy, he felt like he couldn’t get enough air into the small, suffocating body he was wearing. Theckla had been so surprised he wasn’t actually a Demon already. She hadn’t understood, she didn’t understand what he was. Jersey didn’t even understand what he was!

All he was sure of was that he was killing someone who had done nothing to him. He was doing it just so he could go to an awful hot, fiery place and hurt more people who had done nothing to him.

In the middle of the dusty, cramped confines of Theckla’s strange den the Jersey Devil suffered something of a full emotional breakdown. He had pulled the glamorie ring off his hand and launched himself out of a second story window. Theckla had called for him to come back, Jersey had ignored her.

The special glamorie ring was still grasped tightly in the clawed fingers of Jersey’s left hand.

He clutched it until the metal circle sank into the meat of his palm and began to hurt. The pain felt deserved and Jersey made no move to adjust his grip.

The same thoughts kept swirling through the Legend’s head. He kept thinking about Crow-lee, home, Hell and the Demons who had come to him in the Barrens. He thought until the thoughts themselves started to feel tired and overused.

_Maybe_, a little voice that sounded just like Jersey’s own whispered, _maybe you deserve to be alone. Maybe this is what you get for trying to change things._

Throwing back his head Jersey opened his gaping, jagged mouth and let out a mournful howl; it was lost instantly in a violent gust of wind.

Jersey was _so_ tired.

He dipped down below the clouds and realized the sun was starting to set. Flying in the dark would be a bad idea. Jersey turned empty eye-sockets down to the patchwork ground far below. He needed to land, get his bearings and find a place to spend the night.

Jersey wasn’t sure what he would do after that. He had transformed while still wearing his human clothing and not much of it remained. The Legend’s jeans had been reduced to pair of tatty shorts and his lovely, soft sweatshirt was full of holes.

Could he even go back to Theckla now? He had broken her window, scared her…even if she wanted him back would he ever be able to find her? -

Fat, icy drops of water plopped onto Jersey’s back and down inside his ears. Theckla could wait, all of it could wait just a moment. The Legend just needed to get out of the sky and find somewhere to wait out the worst of the downpour.

Jersey spotted a bright green spot of parkland among a scattering of rooftops and roadways. He moved his body towards it in a smooth arc, his flexible tail trailing behind him like a rudder. Jersey hoped nobody spotted him, for their sake and his, as he sailed quietly through a low hanging fog. He didn’t want to scare anyone, or draw more attention to himself.

Hovering close to a narrow stretch of road Jersey jerked back, wings flared as he almost crashed into a humongous stone gate. He barely cleared the gate’s gray roof, one wing sweeping noiselessly over the buildings slate and stone structure. It was like a castle, a little castle in the middle of an English forest.

Jersey could see instantly why the gate was there and what it was guarding.

Tall stone statues rose from the damp, loamy forest floor and spread out into the trees as far as the Legend could see. Jersey gasped and smashed his hooves down hard into the cobbled ground, worried he would smash into a stone before he was able to gain enough altitude to break through the canopy again.

Jersey’s hooves hit the ground so hard they sparked against a path scattered with concrete and remnants of old brick. He broke into a clumsy run, folding his wings as he fought to slow his gait down to an undignified half-gallop. The hard echo of hoof on pavement bounced off the trees and tall moss-covered stones, following Jersey as he finally, mercifully, came to a breathless stop.

For what seemed like an eternity the cryptid stood in the pouring rain among the strange statuary. He gasped for air and licked hungrily at the water running along the planes of his bare skull. Jersey couldn’t remember the last time he had been so thirsty. He would have given his tail for an ice-cold glass of soda-pop.

After a moment more of recovery Jersey opened his hand and gazed down at the ring resting between his splayed claw-tips. He didn’t want to put it on. He couldn’t hear or smell people in the weird statue forest. It seemed to be abandoned, at least for the moment; he was safe.

Checking and rechecking the pocket at the front of his ruined sweatshirt for holes, Jersey deposited the ring deep in the wet fabric for safekeeping. Once he was sure it was securely tucked away the Legend went down on all fours and crept out into the maze of carved stones, curious about what they were.

The stones were all different sizes, shapes, colors and ages. Some of them were very large and seemed to take up lots of space. Others were around the same size and sat in neat rows. Sitting back on his haunches Jersey squinted at a muddy bit of text on a stone square with a human skull carved into it.

After a moment spent teasing words from the text Jersey managed to read.

_“Here lies buried the body of Mrs. Esther Gage, amiable wife and comfort of Mr. Thomas Gage and second daughter of Mr. George Stafford. She departed this life Jan 29th 1780 in the 27th year of her age. Unblamed through life and lamented in her end.”_

Jersey snorted water from the end of his boney nose as he puzzled this out. Buried the body? Yes, ok, he knew about this. He had once seen something like this in his woods. A small group of humans in black clothing had put a box in the ground that smelled like dead animal and made a big fuss over it. They hadn’t put a rock sculpture on top of the box, they had put two planks of wood that had eventually rotted away.

The planks had made a cross, the same shape humans often kissed if they had to walk by the Barrens alone; back before they all had cars. The box must have held a dead human and the cross was there to mark the spot.

Animals didn’t bury their dead, they left them for scavengers, to be taken back into the dirt. Jersey supposed this was a bit like that…but different and confusing, like most things’ humans did.

Jersey ambled down the path between the sculptures. He stopped every once in a while, to puzzle over carved words or examine a statue that was particularly interesting. Sometimes he would see one that looked like an animal or a human. He noticed a lot of Angel’s too. Or, he assumed they were Angels. They were humans with long flowy hair, sad faces and big wings on their backs. They looked just like the pictures on the walls of the coffee shop.

Pausing to stare at another overgrown rock covered with smooth, mossy skulls Jersey sighed; a wisp of air slipping between his exposed teeth. The burial place was very large, seemingly endless, and the Legend was, ironically, feeling dead on his feet.

Sitting up rabbit-like on his haunches Jersey spotted a large angel sculpture just beyond a circle of gnarled trees. Its wings were spread wide and, combined with some overhanging branches, formed a sheltered place that offered some protection from the wet.

Shaking his mane like an overgrown dog, Jersey made his way to the Angel, careful not to catch his antlers in a bunch of whip-thin, willow branches.

The Angel loomed above him, eyes closed and hands held together as if she was contemplating something important. She was perched on a flat slab of heavy marble painted with a soft layer of fallen leaves and inquisitive grass stalks. Jersey curled tight against the statue’s feet, tail to nose-tip, and adjusted his bulky body into a more comfortable position.

It wasn’t the worst place he had ever taken a nap, but it sure wasn’t his dry cave or a warm rafter in Theckla’s den- her heated den full of food and soda and-

Jersey banished this thought instantly. He didn’t want to think about that right now. He pulled the remnants of his hoodie closer and curled his arms around his growling stomach. The Legend tried to clear his mind so he could sleep for a little while; maybe things would make more sense when he woke up…

It seemed like the Legend had only closed his eyes for a few seconds when a voice roused him and the smell of blood filled his nostrils.

“Wake up Lad, moons up. Brought you a breakfast.”

Jersey, spooked by the blood and a stranger addressing him directly, rose quickly from his makeshift den. He arched his back, felt his eyes burn cinder-red and hissed low into the darkness.

It appeared the moon had indeed risen. Jersey had been asleep for a few hours at least, though, it was difficult to tell how long without looking at the position of the stars. Jersey couldn’t see who had spoken to him, couldn’t see anything but the shadowy skeletons of carved rocks.

The fresh blood smell was tantalizing.

Jersey twisted his long neck to follow the scent and spotted a dead rabbit placed on top one of the many thick slabs of flat, chiseled rock. Before he could really think through the consequences the cryptid was on the rabbit teeth first.

He ripped hair from the pelt and was near delirious with relief when the still warm blood hit his tongue. Jersey ripped chunks of meat from the dead rabbit and swallowed them whole. As good as Theckla’s food was it was nice to have something freshly dead again.

A rasping voice chuckled from the shadow of a nearby cross-stone. It didn’t seem like a mean sound but it sent a thin chill up Jersey’s back.

“Good! You have an appetite.”

Jersey stopped mid-chew, a bit of fur and tendon hanging from his canines. He swallowed what was in his mouth and sheepishly wiped blood from his skinless jaw.

“It’s not poisoned…Is it?”

Jersey had ingested poison before. He had seen human hunters leave behind fresh meat and later learned it had something bad put in it: Ranger’s called it poison. The poison had made him sick and killed the animals that ate it. Jersey didn’t want to repeat that experience.

The strange, deep voice laughed again.

“No, course not Son. We’re the same blood and bone you and I. Would never poison kindred.”

“Son? Kindred? I don’t understand…”

The shadows where the voice was coming from shimmered. Something moved in the undulating depths and two red eyes shone, almost jovially, in Jersey’s direction.

“Never met another bit of Lore then? Mmm, you sound American. Far from home? Then, can’t say I’ve seen your like. You aren’t Fae though you could certainly pass.”

Jersey looked back at eyes that flashed nearly the same shade of red as his own and dropped what remained of the half-eaten rabbit carcass from long, clawed fingers. He didn’t understand half the words the thing was saying but as the wind shifted, he could smell them.

They smelled like shadow, like woods and like something else- something smoky-sweet that Jersey had only ever smelled on his own skin. They smelled just like him.

“What-who…”

Soundlessly, a shape slid from the blue, night shadows. It was a massive black dog, or, outwardly it looked like one. On all fours it was as tall as a man, on its hind legs it would have been several feet taller than Jersey.

There had not been a wolf in the Pine Barrens for decades but Jersey remembered when there were, he remembered what they looked like. This shadowy thing looked almost like them but, also like the dogs campers brought when they were hunting or fishing.

Ghostly wisps of black, phantom fog hovered around the dog’s body, giving off a blush of blue phosphorescence. Red light spilled from its eyes and flickered inside of its jaws like the embers of a campfire.

“Well, to the who? Human’s have called me lots ‘a names. Scucca, Old Shock, Barghest-my name is mostly Black Shuck these days. Shuck for short.”

The monstrous, horse-sized dog leaned forward and scratched idly at one ear with a huge back paw.

“And the what? Lore, Myth-same as you my boy. Same as you cept-“

The dog scented the air with teacup-sized nostrils, snorted, then sneezed out a plume of smoke and brimstone that singed the air and left behind a smell like rotten eggs.

“You’re young, not more than a young man compared to all us here.”

Jersey could barely find his voice, blinking in awe.

“I-I didn’t think there were more things like me…I-I didn’t…The Demon said.”

“You hanging around Demons lad? Don’t recommend it. Most of ‘em is untrustworthy arseholes. Always looking out for themselves. Pah, we all steer clear of em on principle and they usually do likewise.”

Jersey wasn’t sure what to say, what to do with his hands. He felt like he was about to explode or throw up, maybe both. His brain was so filled with questions he wasn’t sure what to ask first. How he could make Shuck understand just how insane this was, how important.

He opened his mouth and all that came out was a bubbly sob and a half-coherent sentence.

“The Demon said I was an abnormality!”

Shuck trotted over with an understanding whine and licked at the gooey black tears suddenly leaking from Jersey’s eyes.

“Easy kid, easy there. You’re definitely not an ab-Abby-whatever. You really never met another of us?”

Jersey sniffled and shook his head until his teeth rattled and it felt like his antlers would break off. The Black Dog put a paw the size of a dinner plate on his back and licked at his muzzle contemplatively.

“Demon knew that no doubt. America, suppose it’s a right big place eh?”

Jersey didn’t know much about America. He knew that’s where the Pine Barrens were, Where New Jersey was. Where, whatever Jersey was, was born. All he knew of America, the USA, was gathered from discarded maps and half-witnessed news reports. He had never really thought about it being big, he had never thought about it at all. Should he have known there were more things like him in the wide world? Why had no one told him? Why hadn’t the Demon told him?

The tears came faster and Jersey’s shoulders jerked as he launched into the kind of cry that makes it hard to breathe. He had been holding everything in for such a long time.

“I’m..s-s-stupid!”

The Legendary monster hiccupped balefully.

“I’m so d-duh-dumb!”

Shuck shook his head slowly.

“No, no lad, just young. You grew up alone, not your fault. Nah your fault if nobody told you. How could you have known eh? I popped onto this earth some thousand years or so ago not knowing a blessed thing.”

Using a bit of torn hoodie sleeve to wipe at his skull Jersey swallowed hard and turned empty sockets towards Shuck.

“I scare people. I-I don’t hurt them.”

A black tail thick and long as a man’s arm thumped the pavement, wagging appreciatively.

“That’s right, that’s part of our job.”

Jersey plowed on ahead, a black spray of saliva bursting past his razor-sharp incisors.

“I don’t want to be a Demon anymore! I-I don’t know what to do! She-she…”

“Hold it! Hold it…Become a Demon?”

A growl shimmered low in Shuck’s wide chest. He pushed closer to Jersey, his thick fur giving off heat like an open flame.

“Can you tell me your name boy?”

Jersey, who was still trying to understand exactly what was happening, lowered his voice shyly.

“I-they called me the Jersey Devil. Jersey.”

“Well, Jersey.”

The frightful hound said, not unkindly.

“I think you need to start from the beginning.”

_Las Vegas, Nevada, United States of America: 1955_

Pearl Smith, formally Pearl Padgett, had once seen a newsreel about Nevada that described it as “A hot, teal piece of an unearthly blot upon the universe.” Having been in the state for a few days she had to say that was doing Nevada a bit of a kindness.

Every breath was full of dust and heat. Pearl would sometimes stand and turn her face to the naked sun and swear she could feel the color red moving through her sinuses. The air was so dense there seemed no way it could be transparent. Surely it would have to exist to the naked eye If it was thick enough to be swallowed.

Pearl had lived her whole life in Rhode Island, near the cool touch of the ocean. She had never seen a cactus before, had only seen palm trees in movies and picture books. In person, perhaps, they should have been more impressive but Pearl found she just wasn’t in the proper mindset to be impressed.

She was too busy wallowing in her own misery.

Pearl ran a painted nail over the rim of her martini glass thoughtfully, swiveling on her barstool to take in the crowd lingering on the roof of the Ace High Hotel and Casino.

It was nearly a quarter past ten but the rising heat had only just begun to dissipate. A few brave souls were swaying slowly on the empty dance floor but few seemed willing to sweat through their best evening wear.

This, the bartender had informed her, was normal. The party didn’t really start until midnight, when a kinder, cooler breeze blew in from the desert. That’s when the alcohol would flow in earnest and Mr. Sinatra would start his set. For now, the guests were nibbling at their overpriced dinners, sampling selectively from plates of fruit and cowboy themed hoer d’oeuvres.

The guests sat at little tables around the edge of the long rooftop, faces lit by candles and tinkling fairy lights strung about the innocuous pine wood guardrails.

Pearl had been here for about two hours now. Her husband of twenty-four hours and four minutes, was down the street at the Golden Nugget getting plastered. Or, maybe he had gotten bored of Blackjack at the Nugget and had shifted his drunk ass to the Pioneer club to paw feebly at the slot machines.

Or, perhaps Irving had grown bored throwing away a chunk of the money her parents had given them to buy a house and was out looking for a female companionship; possibly some woman suitably impressed by his war stories.

Pearl sighed deeply, set her drink down on the polished bar top and settled her chin into her palm, propping herself on her elbow. All around her couples crooned to each other in low seductive voices, leaning in so close their dim silhouettes began to merge into a single grotesque creature.

It was rumored you could get a divorce in Las Vegas in three minutes flat. Marriage licenses only cost five dollars a piece and there was an eager justice of the peace on every corner. You could arrive in Las Vegas in the afternoon, find a twenty-four-hour chapel a block from your hotel and be married before dinner and drinks at the El Dorado Club.

And that’s what she and Irving had done. Quick, cheap and emotion free. All preformed by a tired looking priest in a perilous stretch of heat and alkali.

Pearl really couldn’t bring herself to be angry at Irving for ducking out on the evening. She had been cold to him since their first date, perhaps before. They had been neighbors since childhood, friends since high school and forced lovers since he had come back from the South Seas.

Irving Smith was not a bad man. Or, he had not started out one. At some point during his service the war had broken him. But then, what man who came back wasn’t a bit broken? Irving had served on an airship during the Pacific Theater and spent much of his time drinking to forget the fact.

Pearl could see it rapidly becoming a problem, the drinking.

Her Mother, an upstanding socialite, knew what the terms depressive and Alcoholic meant, but they were taboo in the Padgett household. They struck a little too close to home, too close to issues best not discussed in polite company.

Pearl could see what Irving would become someday and knew that marriage meant that it was solely her problem now. Keeping Irving’s low moods, a secret, becoming incensed at the mention of taboo terms like “battle exhaustion” or “war neurosis.” Conditions both the Smiths and Padgett’s refused to attribute to Irving’s constant drinking and fits of anger. 

Perhaps that’s why Irving’s parents forced the marriage as much as Pearl’s own. They needed to shackle a caretaker to their son before he ended up in VA hospital and dating wasn’t his first priority. It was the homely Pudgett girl down the street or months of electro-shock treatment.

Pearl’s mother just wanted her married. She had recently turned the ripe old age of twenty-seven and had nothing to show for it but a liberal arts degree. A liberal arts degree did not deliver grandchildren, nor did Pearl’s frivolous interest in writing books.

Fiddling with the thin string of her evening purse Pearl debated finding an empty, isolated table away from the bar and pulling out her notebook to jot down a few thoughts. It would be enough to take her mind away from whatever her newlywed husband was up to and eat up a bit of time before the early morning entertainment

There was also a little paperback in Pearl’s purse. A paperback whose covered she had torn off for propriety sake. A cover that would have made most of her mother’s bridge club scream and faint on sight.

Now wouldn’t that be something to see.

Pearl had long been a secret imbiber of pulp in all its racy, scandalous glory. During her brief and glorious tenure at Salve Regina University Pearl had managed to amass, in secret, a nice little collection of spicy pocket books. Books with names like “Woman’s Barracks” and “Feminine Fantasy.”

Now, thinking about starting her newest purchase made something inside Pearl crack like brittle ceramic.

A tap on her shoulder snapped Pearl out of her own gloomy thoughts. She turned to see who was trying to get her attention and was both disappointed and delighted to see it wasn’t Irving. 

It was a woman. A woman whose white-blonde hair was so illuminated by the distant light of the dance floor it took Pearl a moment to see her face through the glare.

Once she did see it Pearl realized at once the woman was quite beautiful.

“Oh, pardon me! I’m sorry to bother you. I had a question, what is that strange drink you’re drinking?”

Pearl felt her face flush, her cheeks go cherry red. She hoped the stranger wouldn’t notice. Prayed that she would be able to speak without giving herself away.

“Ah, no bother at all, they call it an Atomic Martini…”

The blonde woman gave a tinkling laugh and wiggled her entire body as if she could not be more delighted.

“I say! They really do go all out on the theme here don’t they?”

Pearl couldn’t help but laugh, a soft sound she was not used to making.

“I, I suppose they do, though it seems a bit morbid if you really think about it.”

The woman stood up very straight and plucked at the fabric of her lovely, cream-white cocktail dress. She spoke with an upper-class British accent, her words concise but effervescent.

“I can’t argue with you there my dear but I shan’t let it stop me from enjoying one of those scrumptious looking cocktails!”

Making room at the bar for the woman, Pearl took the opportunity to get a better look at her. She was older than Pearl, by a good few years, but her real age was difficult to determine. If pressed Pearl would guess forty or so. She had lovely, pale silky skin and a pleasant face to match her friendly demeanor.

She was also very plump and it was this that Pearl found not only the most endearing but, shamefully, the most attractive. In the Padgett household fat was as unacceptable as muddy shoes. All her life Pearl had been told think thin, cut back on meals and avoid dessert like the plague.

It had made heavyset women something of a rarity, a mystery and, deep down, a turn on.

The British woman picked up her atomic cocktail with open ecstasy. She gazed at it like it truly was radioactive despite containing nothing more exotic than a nice bit of Brut Champagne. The bartender had added some tasteless food coloring that rendered the drink an electric green; tacky but undeniably charming.

The woman turned to face Pearl again, smiling with a perfect set of white teeth. She wore almost no makeup, she didn’t need any, all her beauty was natural; another concept foreign to Padgett women.

“This is dreadfully forward my dear but, I’m on my own this evening and would love some company at my table. Care to join me?”

Pearl felt her heart jump at the invitation but managed to answer in an even tone.

“Honestly, that would be lovely. I am Miss Pearl Padgett, and you are?” 

The woman took Pearl’s hand in her own and gave it a demure shake, she was wearing a lovely elbow length satin glove. It had an odd pattern to it, a faded tartan.

“Miss Azura Fell! Pleased as punch to meet you my dear!”

Following her new companion through a maze of party-goers, Pearl was surprised to see an empty table near the edge of the rooftop. It had only two chairs and a perfect view of the open starry desert beyond the edge of Las Vegas. It seemed almost miraculous it hadn’t been taken by some other couple looking for privacy.

In fact, Pearl was almost _certain_ it hadn’t been there moments before.

Folding her dress scrupulously Pearl took a seat and inhaled a fresh breath of air; it had been so stale over by the bar, she hadn’t even realized it until she had left.

“So!”

Azura said as she sat in her own chair.

“What brings you to Las Vegas Pearl?”

Pearl was taken aback somewhat by the nonchalant way her new acquaintance threw around her first name. In her social circles, really her Mother’s social circles, first names were not bandied about after one handshake. It, like most everything about this lovely woman, was refreshingly forward.

Pearl took in a steadying breath, determined to return the favor.

“I- well I suppose I’m here because of marriage.”

Daintily, Azura took a sip from her nuclear green glass. She made a great exaggerated show of looking about them.

“I, take it the marriage is not a happy one? Your husband isn’t here is he?”

Pearl couldn’t stop the snort of disgust she made in answer.

“No, he isn’t. I’m not sure where he-“

“I know exactly where Irving is.”

Freezing in place Pearl raised her gaze from her own drink and found herself looking directly into Azura Fell’s eyes. The sparkled like sunlight on the surface of a calm ocean. There was a great intelligence in the depths, intelligence and age well beyond forty-some years. Pearl bit her lower lip unsure how to answer.

Reaching across the table with one of those expressive, gloved hands Azura picked up Pearl’s purse from where she had laid it on the tabletop. Undoing the clasp with a flick of the wrist she reached in and drew out the little notebook of Pearls writing.

A fresh wave of embarrassed flush spread through Pearl Padgett’s face from nose tip to neck. No one had ever read her writing, there was no one she trusted enough. Her world would have ended if anyone found out about her filthy preference in reading material, let alone that she dabbled in writing her own.  
“I-I!”

She managed, terrified.

Azura placed a pair of pointed, cats-eye glasses on her cherubic, up-turned nose and began to read through several pages of Pearl's lurid thoughts and scribbled yearnings. She had begun the outline of a novel in that little innocuous notebook. She had written a few paragraphs of solid ideas, a scribbling of something that would have made her Mother disown her.

Yet, Pearl found she couldn’t reach out and jerk the book from this plump woman’s grasp. Her muscles were locked in something that felt like rigor mortis. It was like she had died of embarrassment and her brain had yet to receive the message.

Azura seemed unbothered. For what felt like hours she flipped carefully through the pages of Pearl’s dirty secret. The fact that this stranger had known not only about Irving but also the location of the notebook…

Pearl startled as a buzz of microphone feedback cut through her frantic thoughts. She blinked out of the strange trance that had overcome her and saw that the entertainer, the rat pack singer was leaving the stage, bowing to an appreciative crowd.

When had he even started his set? Pearl couldn’t recall, he must have started to sing hours before. Had she really been so locked into herself watching Azura read she had lost that much time?

Azura cleared her throat and gingerly removed her glasses. Wiping daintily at one eye she sniffed and closed Pearls notebook reverently. She seemed to have read it to the last page.

“You write very well. Very, very well! And, I consider myself something of an expert on the subject. I’ve read enough authors to recognize true skill.”

Pearl gasped, despite her embarrassment and fear she could feel the sincerity in Miss Fell’s compliment. It was almost palpable, a solid thing that hung heavy between them that was not to be taken lightly.

“I-it…”

Azura captured Pearl’s eyes with her own. She was smiling, holding the little notebook in her tartan gloved hands. Her voice, despite her smile, sounded sad.

“Irving does need help but it’s not your responsibility to save him. Marriage is a covenant, one not to be broken but…vows made without sincerity, well. I suppose they hardly count.”

Pearl felt her mouth slip open and she slowly turned her head side to side as understanding dawned.

“You...think I should leave Irving? I promised his Mother, my Mother! He, wanted to be married here, didn’t want the big wedding so I-I said yes. I do worry about him. I truly do! But I-I..I just can’t! ”

Handing the notebook back to Pearl Azura took a sip of her, now lukewarm, drink.

“You wrote about running away to New York, yes? In the novel you’ve started? When I read it I got the impression it wasn’t just a plot point…it’s a desire isn’t it? A temptation I would say.”

Staring dazedly at the tabletop Pearl licked dry lips and tasted her own smudged lipstick.

“I want to run away, I want to go to New York and be an author. Live alone, unknown by anyone. I want to write-but. It’s not the right thing to do. Irving needs help and our parents, they’ll need me as well when they’re older…I-I just can’t!”

Azura nodded and in that one motion somehow, somehow Pearl knew that she, this woman who appeared from nowhere, knew everything. Knew about her mother, her broken husband, and all the deep hidden desires of her heart.

“You can live your own life. You weren’t born to be the steward of other’s happiness Pearl, especially if they don’t care for your feelings. You are a talented author my dear and I’m sure you will find success if you are brave enough to try.”

Taking deep breaths to calm herself Pearl felt her thoughts racing. It was as if the clouds had parted, the path seemed to free and clear. Divorced, single women came and went from Las Vegas all the time. She could salvage some of the house and honeymoon money from Irving’s account. Easily enough for a plane ticket, enough for a small room until she was able to find a job. She didn’t need much, not much at all.

Why had she not seen it before? It all seemed so simple now. All she had needed was just one person to give her permission, read what she had written.

Pearl Padgett laughed, happy tears starting to flow as she stuck her notebook back into her evening purse. Knocking back the remnants of her own drink Pearl laughed in amazement and looked up to thank the beautiful woman who had so easily seen reason. Whoever, whatever she was.

Azura had left the table and walked to the edge of the rooftop.

She was not the only one, the party guests were all there as well, pressed tight against the guardrails that faced long miles of empty Nevada desert. The sun was just beginning to peek its pink head over the horizon. Time had passed so rapidly Pearl felt as if a whole night had gone by in fifteen minutes. The whole night had been so bizarre it spoke of the supernatural.

Pearl shivered at a sudden brush of chill, early air as she joined Azura at the railing, leaning her weight on it in a way most un-ladylike. In the pale, creamy morning light Miss Fell looked radiant. A bit of sunlight reflected off her white hair and, for a moment, it was as if she had sprouted a halo.

The crowd went quiet as the party MC gave one last announcement over the speakers.

“Any moment now ladies and gentlemen! The moment you’ve been waiting all night for will happen any moment! Thank you for coming to our Dawn Bomb Party!”

The smells of alcohol, cigarettes and cooling sweat pervaded the mass of huddled bodies. 

Pearl pushed closer to Azura. In the murky morning half-light waiters were passing out pairs of dark sunglasses. Pearl wiped the last bit of moisture and mascara from her eyes. She examined her glasses a beat before slipping them on, they were stamped with the name of the hotel on the side; a rather odd memento.

Azura seemed contemplative, she examined her own sunglasses with an expression Pearl thought looked like longing. It was as if the glasses had reminded her of something important.

“My friend…”

Azura murmured.

“He said he saw one of them in Japan, during the war but I-”

Sliding the glasses on resolutely Azura adjusted her dress and pulled fastidiously at the ends of her gloves. She looked as if she was about to say something else but anything further was instantly cut off by a distant and earthshattering explosion.

Pearl turned all her attention towards the distant desert hills and her heart leapt to her throat as the sky turned briefly into full daylight. Something rose up, up and up from the ground and high into the endless sky.

Smoke billowed in a mound that shot straight into space, piled onto itself and started to slip slow down its own edges. It puffed outwards for what had to be miles, thrusting itself furiously over the landscape as it continued to push up and out to make its savage presence known.

A sharp blast of wind kicked up by the mushroom cloud a hundred miles from Las Vegas finally reached the hotel roof. It flipped up evening dresses and ruffled hair as it passed. There was a wave of chatter, a few nervous shrieks of laughter.  
The display of nuclear might, the power and ferocity of it made a shiver go through Pearl and she hugged herself tightly.

“It’s a terrifying thing. I hope it’s never used again.”

Miss Fell didn’t move, her lips pursed in a tight frown. She watched the mushroom cloud slowly fall, it seemed as if it was too big to be dispelled by the wind. It seemed as if that monolith would be there forever, a warning and a tribute to death.

Finally, Azura spoke.

“He was right. It looks so much like Her wrath…you would never be able to tell the difference.”

Pearl frowned in confusion, a hundred questions on her lips. She held them in, instinct telling her that it really was none of her business and clearly out of her depth. Instead she watched the nuclear test sink back to the earth. She started to think about aliases, names she was partial to.

She would need a new name when she reached New York.

_ A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop, Soho, London, England: Present day_

At nine O’clock in the morning, exactly 10 hours after his first seizure, Crowley experienced a second.

Aziraphale heard the sound of a soft thump on hard floor and ran pell-mell through piles of meticulously stacked books. He had only been a few feet away. He didn’t want to leave Crowley but had decided, judiciously, that it would be wise to start looking into his symptoms.

Dumping a book he had been leafing through to the ground, Aziraphale knelt by the thrashing Demon. With a snap of his fingers the Angel had a pillow in hand, he pushed it slowly under Crowley’s head to cushion his skull. He couldn’t tell if his friend was conscious of what was going on.

The violent contractions seemed to go on forever and reminded Aziraphale, unhappily, of the time he had spent with the miserable and ill in a variety of asylums and homes for the so called insane. 

Angels are blessed with a certain amount of knowledge of the earth and its workings but human bodies were very much a mystery, especially in the beginning. Aziraphale learned about germ theory as humans did and was woefully uninformed about seizures and mental illness until much later in his long life.

The only real advantage he had over the average medical “expert” in the unenlightened ages was certainty of possession. If a person displayed certain symptoms Aziraphale could always tell if they were possessed by Demons or suffering an actual ailment. Actual possession was rare, very rare; only about one in a million was an actual Demon, the rest was just human sickness. Demons didn’t care for corporation sharing on a good day.

Being in a corporation had taught Aziraphale more than anything. He accumulated the knowledge over time, supplementing it with whatever books he could find on anatomy and medicine. At times he learned from fieldwork. The principality was not a healer by nature but really all Angels dabble in it; wars always need competent medics no matter the decade.

After what seemed like hours Crowley slowly, mercifully, stopped seizing.

He was covered in sweat, limbs splayed but held stiff and straight as his muscles quivered like high-tension wires. Aziraphale lay a hand under the demon’s jaw and held his breath as he searched for his friends pulse.

It was there, panicked and fast as a hummingbirds.

Tenderly as he could, the Angel turned Crowley on his side, stroking his shoulder and whispering little embarrassing endearments. He couldn’t recall where he remembered this position for recovery. Perhaps from a book? A medical practitioner? It was very recent, within the last hundred years at least.

After his time in trenches and field hospitals Aziraphale had sworn off combat healing for a time. He hadn’t seen the inside of a medical tent since the nonsense in Korea. How many years back was that now? Crowley would know better than he did, Crowley had spent most of that war and the previous conflict in Vietnam encouraging draft dodgers. Arguably a tempting that saved a good number of lives.

His Demon was so remarkably devious at things of that nature. Taking something that, on the surface, could be considered diabolical but really-

Crowley moaned softly, pulling his arms and knees closer to his torso. He sounded drunk, the sort of miserable drunk that made a corporation sick, that made speech and movement difficult.

“Crowley, dearest, you’ve had another seizure I’m afraid. Can you hear me?”

The Demon tried to respond but the words came out indecipherable as he caught his breath. He was shivering again, shivering so badly Aziraphale could hear his teeth chattering fit to chip enamel.

“Oh, oh…there now.”

The sofa wouldn’t do. Not if Crowley was going to slip off and hurt himself. The Angel straightened, glanced around his dusty sitting area and huffed impatiently to himself. No more beating around the bush. The first thing to do was get Crowley settled. It was no different then settling the plague-ridden or the tubercular into a proper sick bed really.

Aziraphale held up a hand and snapped, pulling his hand down with a forceful jerk. The miracle artfully rearranged the molecules of the Angel’s antique couch into a cot-like bed, low to the ground and soft as goose-down to the touch.

There was a serviceable enough bed upstairs in the Angel’s ill-used flat but the thought of letting Crowley out of his sight for even an instant as he searched his books for answers was appalling. Even if his shop and flat were warded to kingdom come, pardon the expression, Aziraphale knew that if his Demon were even a room away anxiety would shake him into confetti-sized bits.

With another snap Aziraphale summoned a long-handled bed warmer. The kind he had grown so fond of during the Victorian era and had never quite given up using. It was already red hot to the touch and the Angel shoved it delicately under the just-miracled bed. He supposed Crowley would prefer some sort of electrical version, he was always very clever when it came to such things.

Rubbing his hands on his worn pant legs and tugging nervously at his lapels Aziraphale held his hands above Crowley hesitantly, wondering if he had waited a sufficient amount of time before moving him. The Demon’s breathing was calm enough. It was raspy at the back of his throat, but the cadence was even and not as shallow as it had been before.

“I’m going to move you now Dear…alright?”

Crowley made a small noise to show he understood, an odd mixture of a hiss and a groan.

After briefly debating the use of another miracle Aziraphale decided it would be better to go the sturdier route. The Angel slid strong arms up under Crowley’s back and knee’s and lifted him like he was made of glass; like he was more precious than a first edition bible with several misprints in Corinthians.

The Demon trembled his skin absolutely arctic to the touch.

Aziraphale held him close, perhaps closer than was absolutely necessary, hoping to warm him. The Angel was so close he could see the dots of freckles on the Demon’s corporation. Pale speckles littered the Serpent’s cheeks and formed a small bridge over his pointed nose. Had any other Demon ever had freckles? Had any Angel? Had any really spent enough time under Earth’s sun to earn them?

The new mattress sank under Crowley’s light weight and Aziraphale scrabbled to tuck him in. He had scented the crisp sheets with lavender and lined the interior of the comforters with rabbit fur. He recalled that Crowley liked rabbit lined cloaks during their stint as would-be crusaders during the middle ages. The Demon liked soft fur, soft material, soft bedding…

Soft angels.

Crowley winced in pain his eyes cinched tight against the dim light. Frown lines formed between his eyebrows as he struggled to adjust to his new position.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you Dearest. Are you thirsty?”

Crowley, now miraculously in a clean set of flannel pajamas, coiled into the pre-warmed mattress. He curled his legs up into his stomach and lay still as a snake in torpor.

“No…m’lright.”

Pulling a small mountain of comforters over him, Aziraphale dithered a minute or so before finally adding a heavy blanket he thought had been upstairs somewhere. He didn’t know exactly where it was but still found it, remarkably, in a convenient coat closet.

It was made of a lion’s skin, particularly from a type of lion that no longer existed on the African continent. It had belonged to one of the Roman’s circus lions. A pit beast in the coliseum where Christians were killed by wild beasts inbetween bouts of gladiatorial combat.

Aziraphale had not thought of the dusty old thing until this moment but he recalled it was very thick, and exceptionally warm.

The Angel spread the skin over his friend and hoped he didn’t end up smothering the Demon in his desperate attempt warm him. Despite the cold in extremities Crowley was sweating, his forehead the only part of him burning; his fever seemed to have gotten worse.

Aziraphale sat close to the head of the bed, a wet cloth and bowl of cool water appearing full near his hand with another mindless snap. He dabbed the Demon’s brow, wiping away the sweat before he lay a wet washcloth over his eyes and forehead.

As he fussily adjusted the blankets over his friend for the umpteenth time Aziraphale felt his eyes begin to sting terribly. Inside his body his corporations heart began to pound most un-agreeably and his throat constricted, esophagus pulled taut as a miser’s purse-strings.

He found himself struggling, his brain craving oxygen the Angel knew very well he could do without. It was like his body was dying about him, his corporation seemed to be under attack from the inside out. Aziraphale had witnessed many heart attacks but now he wondered if he was experiencing one. All this effort to escape the wrath of heaven and now, for seemingly no reason, he was about to be sent straight back into their eager clutches.

Tears were spilling from of Aziraphale’s eyes, falling in rivers down his cheeks and he couldn’t even summon the will to draw a handkerchief from his pocket to blot them away. Here he was, dying! Just when Crowley needed him to be there, just when the world had very much not ended and, and-

“er-eraphale…calm down.”

The cracked, hoarse voice made Aziraphale draw out of himself long enough to see that Crowley was gripping weakly at the fabric of his coat.

“Oh! Dearest I’m sorry I just-I just…I believe my corporation is suffering a-…what I mean to say is…Oh I think I might be discorporated here in a moment.”

The words were hard to get out past the lump in his throat and Aziraphale swallowed desperately. The pain in his chest was getting worse, the tightness. Crowley seemed to sense something was wrong through his own pain and he tugged at Aziraphale’s sleeve cuff.

“S’anxiety. Jussst…lie down. It’ll passsss. Promisss.”

“I-yes, alright.”

Aziraphale didn’t feel like arguing, a new sensation in itself. He had always been up for a good argument with Crowley and even now he would have protested given his friends delicate condition but, he found he didn’t have the energy. The Angel pushed next to Crowley, laying atop the covers he had just obsessively arranged.

“Count five between in and out during breathsssss.”

Crowley hissed encouragingly, his own breathing softening empathetically.

Aziraphale did so, mind a blank as he started to pay attention to the way his own corporation’s chest rose and fell. Crowley’s hand found his and held it, one of his sharp nails tracing patterns aimlessly on the Angel’s knuckles.

Time passed, somewhere in the shop a grandfather clock chimed and somewhere even farther the sound of traffic flowed like the waves of a distant sea.

By the time the clock chimed the hour the pain in Aziraphale’s chest had eased to an ache. He had always had trouble with his nerves, but never to the extent there had been pain like he had just experienced; not even during the near-miss that was the Apocalypse.

Crowley, for his part, had sensed the Angel’s panic from deep in whatever twilight state he had been lying in. Unlike the first seizure he was more aware of what had happened this time, more aware that something terrible was happening to him overall.

Deep inside himself, beyond the earthly shell of his corporation, Crowley knew his true self was unraveling. It was hard to say exactly how he knew. It was probably the same instinct he had seen in so many sick animals over his long life. That urge a wounded creature succumbs to when they know something inside has gone terribly wrong and its best to just find a quiet place to die.

An inborn awareness that life was coming to an end.

Crowley’s poor, worn-out corporation was reacting to whatever was ravaging his true self and the Demon had no earthly idea how much time he had left, let alone if there was any way to fix it. Based on the anxiety attack he had just suffered, on some level, Aziraphale clearly knew as well.

The Demon’s mind turned a few languid circles, searching for some easy way to break the silence, to tell the Angel what they probably both already knew.

Aziraphale spoke first, he sounded calmer but still a tad unsteady.

“I’m better now, better now, I think. I-oh Crowley, they’ve done something to you. Heaven has! I’m sure of it.”

“Mmm, could be Hell just as easily.”

The soft cloth shifted on the Demon’s forehead as he turned his head in the direction of Aziraphale’s voice. He couldn’t see him but he could picture the sad look on his face clearly in his mind’s eye. The Angel wrapped his hand tighter around the Demon’s fingers.

“What do you suppose it is? It isn’t Holy Water… “

“No. sss’not. Not sure what could do this…but it’s…”

Crowley swallowed, loathe to say the word aloud, to cement it into reality.

“I think it’s killing my, well, my me. The real me.”

“I…suspected.”

Aziraphale admitted in a whisper.

They both lay there listening to a sudden wind blow dry leaves up against the shop window. Rain was settling on the air; Crowley could just taste it. He was surprised how unsurprised he was by the fact his Angel was still holding his hand. Death seemed like such an impossibility in the quiet between them, a distant thing that wouldn’t happen to him now that he had so much to live for.

Aziraphale sat up, voice resolute.

“We’ll go over the last few days. We’ll go over every last detail. We’ll figure out what’s happening and reverse it. Everything will turn out bang up to the elephant!”

Crowley chuckled drily.

“Been awhile since I heard that one.”

Aziraphale took a deep, experimental breath, sucking air into his corporation’s burning lungs and pushing it out slowly. It was good he and Crowley were now on the same page. It was not the time to come undone. Whatever was happening-they would figure it out, they would fix it. 

They _always_ did.

Reluctantly, the Angel removed his hand from Crowley’s. The cold cloth was probably warm by now. He would need to replace it.

“You’re running a fever my Dear.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ve been trying to warm you and cool you, its rather difficult to do both at once. If you’re still hot I’ll replace your flannel.”

The Demon made a noise of agreement. More cold water sounded, well, heavenly. Reaching up to take the damp cloth from his face Crowley blinked, froze and blinked again.

“Angel…”

Crowley swiveled his head slowly, his pale, flushed face turning in Aziraphale’s general direction.

His eyes, fully open, were both a milky, pupil-less white.

“Aziraphale…I can’t see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody cried in this chapter including me because I finally finished it. 
> 
> History Notes!
> 
> The Black Shuck is a dog like Cryptid seen around cemeteries and churchyards all over Europe. The first sighting dates all the way back to 1127 and sightings are still prominent today. Cryptids and urban legends have been around a long, LONG time.
> 
> In Las Vegas in the 1950's hotels and casino's actually had, no joke, Nuclear Viewing Parties. They took place on rooftops and hills and the city called them Dawn Viewing parties. Tourists went to watch nuclear tests and like clockwork bombs were set off every three weeks for 12 years. They used to called Vegas The Atomic City and it was home to the Atomic Cocktail.
> 
> https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/atomic-tourism-nevada/
> 
> While researching I stumbled upon this hilarious/interesting newsreel made for Vegas in the 50's. It was sort of a long commercial that ran in theaters and enticed tourists. I quote the film twice because you just can't reproduce the exact deliciousness of that flowery language. 
> 
> Film link----->https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=936lU5Sd81A&ab_channel=travelfilmarchive
> 
> The film puts a huge emphasis on divorce and while that might seem strange to us now back in the 50's it was incredibly difficult to get a divorce and in many places outright illegal. Las Vegas provided them FAST and that was a HUGE draw, even more so than the legal casinos at the time.  
Also fun? This tourist footage from 1955---->https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BovVEojZFUA&ab_channel=KenButz
> 
> Like all my chapters almost everything here is based on real historical events. Sinatra did sing at those nuclear parties. And those little pulp books aimed at lesbians? That was a thing. A really cool thing that helped gay people (both men and women) reach out and find a voice/ community in an extremely repressive decade.  
\----->https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/lesbian-pulp-fiction-ann-bannon


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